I snort. “It’s a lot more than that, but yes. Before that part though, my hormones shift, and it makes me really unhappy. So unhappy that sometimes—”
I want to die.
I look down, shame spiraling through my gut at the idea.
“Just stop thinking about it.”
“Why can’t you be happy, Cait?”
“Now you’re just looking for attention.”
Bastian drops to a knee, capturing my gaze. “What is it?”
I shake my head. “I have bad thoughts around this time, and so to separate myself from those thoughts, I call themJerry Thoughts. They’re not me, or my thoughts, so I can say, ‘Fuck you, Jerry,’ when I have shitty thoughts, and it reminds me that they’re not mine. It makes things a little easier.”
He nods slowly. “So, if we can kill this Jerry, you’ll get better?”
I snort. “I wish that were possible. My doctor says I’m probably stuck with this until menopause—another ten to fifteen years to go.”
He grunts. “Is there nothing else to be done about it?”
“I have other systems in place to help manage it. Vitamins I take, and exercises I do, but sometimes it’s just not enough. I could always go on medication—”
“I have needs, Cait. If you won’t fuck me, I’ve gotta do something about it.”
My words fumble at the intrusive memory.
“Medication?” Bastian prompts.
“Drugs. Pills to try and help. But they all come with side effects. I’d rather manage the devil I know rather than be surprised by the one I don’t.”
He hums, his milky eyes tracing back and forth as if he’s reading, then he bobs his head.
“I understand.”
He rises, returns to his altar of books, and assumes his meditation pose.
Does he understand? Or does he think I’m crazy? Talking to a person that doesn’t exist because it makes me feel better sounds pretty crazy.
“Shut up, Jerry,” Bastian says.
I chuckle, and the threat of tears stings behind my eyes.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He dips his head, a nearly imperceptible gesture, as a silent smile creeps over his expression.
I sniffle back the unexpected sensation of gratitude so deep, I didn’t know I could feel it. To be seen, and not just understood, but accepted, by someone I’ve only just met…
Well.
Back to looking for appliances, I guess.
fourteen
The Hands that Bind
Jerry is in full force this morning as I lie in my blow-up hammock, trapped in the folds of it. I shouldn’t have bought the plush queen-sized, but I wanted my parents to have somewhere decent to sleep when they visited. Now, I’m suffering the consequences.
