Page 7 of Unholy Confessions
He shakes his head, rolling his lips together. Looking behind him, he takes a seat in the chair I have in my corner. I don't think I've ever seen him this way. His face looks destroyed. Stretching his long legs in front of him, he clasps his hands together, and lifts his eyes at me. There are tears in the depths, and my heart pounds against my chest. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks. "Let me see those knuckles."
I immediately go to hide them under the covers, but the covers are gone, and my shame is now out in the open. "Dad..."
"You don't have to say anything," he says, hurriedly. "I want you to listen first, and then we can have a serious conversation."
Nodding, I pull my legs up, wrapping my arms around my knees.
The silence stretches between us, and I can hear my heart beating so loud I'm sure he can hear it too. Dad's never looked at me like this before, like he's seeing something that breaks his heart. The tears in his eyes make my stomach twist into knots.
"Son," he starts, his voice rough. "I got a call from Jared this morning. Early. Around six."
My blood runs cold. Jared. Montgomery's dad. Which means... fuck. Montgomery told him. She told him about the fighting.
"He was worried about you. Really worried." Dad leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "He told me some things that... Jesus, RJ. How long have you been struggling like this?"
I want to lie. I want to tell him that everything's fine, that Jared's overreacting, that Montgomery doesn't know what she's talking about. But looking at Dad's face, seeing the genuine concern and pain there, I can't do it. The words stick in my throat.
"I don't know," I whisper finally. "A while."
"The fighting. How long has that been going on?"
"A few months." I rest my chin on my knees. "Maybe longer."
Dad nods slowly, like he's processing this information. "And not sleeping? Jared said Montgomery mentioned that you've been having trouble sleeping."
"I can't turn my brain off." The admission comes out before I can stop it. My voice is hoarse, and it doesn't even sound like me. "It's like there's this constant noise up there, and nothing I do makes it quiet down. Even when I'm exhausted, I just lie here and think about everything I'm doing wrong, everyone I'm not good enough for."
"RJ..." Dad's voice cracks a little.
"The fighting helps," I continue, the words tumbling out now. "When I'm getting hit, or when I'm hitting someone else, it's the only time my mind goes quiet. It's the only time I feel like I can breathe."
Dad runs a hand through his hair, and I can see him struggling with something. "What else? What other symptoms have you been having?"
Symptoms. Like I'm sick or something. But maybe I am sick. Maybe there's something wrong with me that goes deeper than just being a disappointment. Deeper than feeling like I don't belong in this fucking family.
"I can't concentrate on anything. School's a joke – I sit in class and the teacher might as well be speaking a foreign language. I start reading a page in a book and by the time I get to the bottom, I have no idea what I just read." I pause, swallowing hard, fear starting to eat away at my resistance. "And I get so angry about stupid shit. Like, ridiculously angry. Someone bumps into me and I want to rip their head off."
"How's your appetite been?"
"What appetite?" I laugh bitterly. "Food tastes like cardboard most of the time. Montgomery had to basically force me to eat last night."
Dad is quiet for a long moment, and I can see him putting pieces together in his head. When he looks up at me again, his expression has shifted from grief to something else. Determination, maybe.
"Son, I think you might be dealing with depression. Maybe anxiety too. What you're describing – the racing thoughts, the insomnia, the inability to concentrate, the anger, the loss of appetite – these are all symptoms."
"I'm not depressed," I say automatically. "Depressed people are sad all the time. I'm not sad, I'm just... angry."
"Depression doesn't always look like sadness, RJ. Sometimes it looks like anger. Sometimes it looks like numbness. Sometimes it looks like needing to fight just to feel something."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Is that what this is? Is that why I feel like I'm drowning most of the time?
"But why?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "I have everything. Good family, money, opportunities. What the hell do I have to be depressed about?"
"Depression doesn't work that way, son. It's not about what you have or don't have. It's a chemical imbalance in your brain. It's an illness, not a character flaw."
"So I'm broken." It's not a question.
"No." Dad's voice is firm. "You're sick. And sick people get treatment, and they get better."
