Ruin (Ruin 1)

Chapter Twelve

People should just mind their own business. Right? I mean, how am I his problem?

Kiersten

“Who the hell does he think he is?” I yelled into the phone.

Uncle Jo sighed heavily on the other line. “He sounds like a nice young man, and he does have a point.”

I wanted to throw something against the wall. I pulled out another pill and crunched it between my teeth. It was bitter, but I didn’t care. I needed to feel better. I mean, in theory I knew antidepressants weren’t supposed to be taken like that, but the placebo effect was enough — for now.

“Kiersten, he was being a good friend. You do tend to wear your emotions on your sleeve.”

“I’ve known him a day! And what? He wants to help me? To save me? He’s making it worse!”

“How so?” Uncle Jo asked in a calm voice. “It seems to me that he’s pulling off the band-aid you’ve been gluing to your feelings. I’m no expert, but you can only function at the level you’ve been functioning at for so long. I allowed you to go to school four hours away so that you could have your freedom. Remember our agreement.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I sat on the bed and groaned. “Shape up or you ship out and pack my crap.”

His chuckle calmed me. “Exactly. You haven’t dealt with your grief in a healthy way. You shouldn’t still be on antidepressants, you shouldn’t be so uptight. For God sake Kiersten. You’re eighteen!”

“I’m ancient.”

“You’re a kid.” I could just see him pacing on the floorboards in the kitchen. “Live. Go have a beer — and only one. Cheat death, like they didn’t. Go streaking through your dorm. Do something. Anything’s better than you staring at the damn wall like you’ve been doing for the past two years.”

“You been watching Dr. Phil?” I asked.

“Maybe.” He laughed. “The point is you have to live.”

It was the first time someone had given me permission to do exactly that. I always felt like I had to suffer because they did. How stupid, right? But the human condition is stupid. We torture ourselves in order to feel better — that’s what I was doing. Torturing myself because it wasn’t fair.

“Stop,” Uncle Jo growled.

“What?”

“Thinking.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” With a sigh he spoke low into the phone. “Sweetie, your parents would have wanted you to do things, crazy things. They took risks. You torturing yourself and being careful doesn’t protect you from the bad.”

And we get to the heart of the matter.

I was terrified. I felt like I had to control everything. If I controlled what I ate, what I wore, how I acted, who I spoke to, I could keep myself from the same fate.

“They loved you,” he said forcefully.

Words lodged in my throat.

“They would want you to live.”

I swallowed the emotion in my throat. “But what if I don’t live? What if I die?” I could feel the darkness starting to overwhelm me. I sat on my bed and put my head between my knees. The doctor always said anxiety was a form of depression. I’d never believed him, but for the past two years anxiety and depression had been my only friends. Maybe that’s why Wes was pushing me.

“Live,” Uncle Jo rasped. “Mess up. Get arrested. Hell, get caught doing drugs.”

I laughed at his exaggeration

“I just want to know you’re okay.”