Page 110 of Resisting the Temptation
As soon as we step through the hotel room door, I kick off my shoes and literally rip the tights off my legs. I pull off the long-sleeve, black skater dress—one I haven’t worn in forever but keep for occasions like today—to find Ben looking at me with a smirk.
“You could’ve asked me for help,Dulzura.”
My cheeks flush at the image of Ben ripping the tights off of my body.
“Sorry, I was overstimulated. I felt like they were squeezing me to death.”
“You don’t have to apologize. If I had to wear those things, I wouldn’t last ten seconds let alone the four hours you’ve been enduring them. Are you going to wear the dress to dinner at your parents?”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I’ll end up punching someone if I have to be uncomfortablefor another minute.” I pull out some loose, denim-colored cargo pants and a long sleeve rib knit shirt and hold it up for Ben. “I still have to hide my tattoos, but at least I’ll be comfortable.”
Ben shakes his head as he pulls his tie loose and unbuttons his shirt. “I still don’t understand why you have to cover up your tattoos. Or why you had to switch your nose ring for a stud.”
I sigh as I redress. “Because my mom is offended by my body art. She scoffs and warbles about how much money I’ve wasted, how tattoos are for criminals, and tells me I look like a bull with my nose ring—even though it’s not a septum piercing. She’s repeatedly asked why I would subject myself to the pain of the needle, but she doesn’t actually care to understand the answer.”
Ben’s changed in the time it takes me to spill my guts, so he sits next to me on the bed and quietly asks, “What’s the answer?”
His espresso colored eyes are so soft and gentle when they lock with mine.
“I used to… harm myself when I was younger. Nothing as extreme as cutting, but I would scratch myself or bang my head on a wall or a table. I didn’t realize until I got my first tattoo I was trying to feel something other than the anxiety of simply being alive. The buzz of the needle hurts, obviously, but it helps me focus on the sting of pain in that area instead of the pain of… everything else happening in my brain.”
Ben frowns. “I don’t understand how your parents never noticed anything was going on with you.”
“They did notice—well, my mom did. I would have fits of anxiety over small things and then swing intodepression, telling my mom I didn’t want to be alive anymore. She would get mad and threaten to take me to a mental hospital but never actually followed through even though I probably would have benefited from it. I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was four years old. The only time it seemed toactuallyhelp was when I didn’t go to a church approved therapist after high school.”
“Jesus.What kind of mom gets mad at their child about that?”
I could tell him how all throughout junior high and high school, whenever I told my mom I was feeling down, she’d tell me it was because I didn’t read my scriptures or pray enough. She would tell me I wasn’t faithful, and only the faithful are happy. She would tell me to go reflect on what The Lord wanted me to do because if I wasn’t doing it, I was probably just feeling guilty.
I could tell him how my mom was a big advocate for mental health in the ward. She even went as far as getting my therapist at the time—who was an old high school friend of hers—to come to the relief society activities.
But as much as she put on a show for the ward, when it came to her own daughter, my mental health issues became a nuisance. A bother. It worked to her advantage when she wanted to play the victim of the mentally ill daughter but at home? I wastooemotional.
I wastooneedy.
I wastoounreasonable.
I wastoo much.
But I don’t tell him any of it because we’re about to go to their house, and I don’t need to give Ben more of a reason to want to fight them. I’m sure there willbe reason enough without me bringing my childhood trauma into the mix.
Instead, I simply say, “The kind who doesn’t want people to judge her.”
I check the time on my phone, groaning when I see it’s time to leave.
“Ready to dive into the lion’s den?” I ask as I slip on my shoes.
“Let’s do this.” Ben holds his hand out, and I take it, immediately feeling like I can handle what’s to come with Ben at my side.
Chapter 53
Ben
Iwas not ready. Not even close.
The moment Emma and I walked in hand-in-hand, the entire house grew quiet, and everyone stared at us like we were complete strangers. I guess I am, but Emma’s not.
Emma’s mom and dad met us at the door, and Emma’s mom gave her a critical onceover that I could tell made Emma uncomfortable.
