I Won't Call This Hell

I don’t understand this.

I don’t understand at all.

Earlier today, I pulled out of Sophie’s driveway and came home after Regina gently suggested that I may feel better at home in a, uh, more familiar environment. Sophie was right; her mom knew. Her mom knew perfectly well what was wrong with me, and as nice and caring of a woman as she was, she wasn’t ready to have to deal with that ever again.

After I returned home and unpacked my things, I knew I had to make a connection with my parents. Some type of interaction, no matter how painful it was for me. I tiptoed downstairs, walked quietly through the kitchen, preparing a sandwich. I moved around on pins and needles, willing myself to say something, anything, to my parents as I ate at the kitchen table, while they watched from the living room. I had finished my peanut butter and jelly combination on wheat, cleaned off my plate and returned it to its cupboard, hoping to give my parents nothing to call me down for; no reason for me to unwillingly drag myself into this situation once again.

I was done, heading toward the staircase, back to my room. I still hadn’t said a word; neither had my parents. My mother looked down at her lap as I moved past her, my father straight ahead. I was on the landing, my foot perched on the second step when I found my voice. Even then, it was difficult to speak.

“I’m sorry,” I said. My voice was too quiet, an odd sound in my ears. “I’m… I’m, uh, really sorry.”

Then I walked upstairs and shut my door behind me.

Which leads me to now: I’m in my room, still, door closed, and sitting in the chair facing my desk. My laptop is closed in front of me. There is no music playing. My parents haven’t come up to check on me, or speak to me, or anything. The lights are off, but my curtains are pulled back and sunlight is coming through the window. If my mom or dad were to look into my room right now, they would only see me, sitting, stationery, staring out the window.

Only, I’m not looking out the window. My eyes are bent down, to my hands, which are resting on my knees as my legs are folded under me. In my hands is my phone.

I’ve been sitting here, in this chair, for only God knows how long, looking at the numbers in the contact group labeled The Boys. All of their numbers are there. All of their names are typed out, clear as day, where I can see them.

I want to do something about this. I want to... I want to show everyone that I’m fine. There’s nothing going on with me, nothing I can’t handle.

Who to call? I mean, I’m sure any of them would answer. Or maybe they wouldn’t. I hadn’t talked to any of them for weeks. What if they’d lost my number, were confused by who was calling, as to why I was calling? I slid my phone shut, just like that, continuing to run through possibilities in my head.

This doesn’t make any sense.

I love confrontation. I believe that it brings out the best and the worst sides of people, the emotions that really explain us, the true, honest to God us. Then, why can’t I pick up the phone and call someone? Say hello. Ask about the happenings and their day to day lives.

I opened my phone again, returning to the same contact group, stared at their names.

I didn’t want to tell my parents about John, nor did I want to tell Sophie. I didn’t want to say sorry; more like, couldn’t say sorry. I couldn’t call Pat or Garrett or Jared and just make small talk with the people I had grown to enjoy being around.

I was confused by confrontation. The thing I had thought I had understood. Confrontation was yelling, crying, swearing. Confrontation was fists and bruises. Confrontation was words that sting and burn.

It was, until he changed that; until John blindsided me, taking me by surprise, and turning my world upside down. He took what I knew and turned it into something foreign, something I didn’t understand. He turned it around, flipped it inside out, and painted it a completely different color.

John took what I understood. John took what I thought I would always recognize, something I thought I could always see coming.

With a quick press of the call button, I sent the silence of my room into a complete whirlwind. The dial tone of my ringing phone was loud, bouncing off the walls. My hand shook as I pulled the phone to my ear.

No, I told myself. I could do this. Sure, confrontation had changed for me, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t learn what had been altered. I needed to embrace it, learn from it.

“Hey,” My heart raced as they finally picked up.

“Hey, uh, this is Ly-“

“This is Jared. Sorry I’m kinda busy, but just leave me a message. I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

I hung up fast, before the beep.

So much for that, I thought, tossing my phone back somewhere in my room. I heard it hit something, hard, then something else before it was quiet.

I sat up, quickly, pushing aside some of the things on my desk. Water bottles and books fell to the ground with thud noises, other things jolted against the wall. I struggled to clear the way, open my window.

I hadn’t crawled out onto the roof since high school; when I had to sneak out to go to most places. It was kind of odd, scrambling out my window to sit. I only used to sit out on the roof after an argument with my mom or a squabble with my dad or a silly fight with one of those girlfriends you make in high school who never lasts.

So, here I was again. Crawling out onto the roof, after a confrontation.

I wasn’t conquering anything, I realized. I was hiding, getting controlled by this. I was overtaken. I had been since the moment John had called our relationship oFf.

That’s when I knew I couldn’t call Jared, or any of the guys, back. That’s when I wasn’t nervous anymore, wasn’t afraid of what I would say if my mom came to talk to me right then. That’s when I started to think.