Page 52 of Broken Warrior
Asking my mother to forgive me for not caring for her in the way she needed since Dad died was more of an attempt to make amends with him, and that’s because I’ve come to realize that nothing my mother blames me for is warranted.
And hearing her blame me all over again after years without it directly happening while I’m in the middle of asking for forgiveness is like a warped way of getting it.
It solidifies that nothing will change because there is nothing to forgive, nothing except using her as a way to punish myself.
“Goodbye, Ma.” I get to my feet. “I’ll have your books delivered as soon as I can but I won’t be coming back for a while.” I go to touch her shoulder but she pulls away, recoiling as if I was going to burn her with my touch alone. “I’m glad you’re doing better.”
She mumbles something about how it’s no thanks to me, how I shouldn’t come back at all, and as I make my way toward the front and out of the building, that’s when I realize the elephant that’s been sitting on my chest waiting for me to suffocate finally got up and left.
* * *
Walkingout of a realtor’s office is kind of bizarre but I’m glad I stopped in. I’m not quite ready to make any more drastic changes, getting off drugs and dealing with my shit has been big enough, but it’s the last piece of the puzzle and having a little knowledge now will help later.
My phone buzzes just as I pull it from my pocket.
POPE:You good?
I smirk.
Nope, but I am ok.
ME:Went as expected.
POPE: Damn.
ME: I know. It’s fine. Gonna take a break from visiting for a while, too negative.
POPE: Good call. Have Jackal take her shit up there. You don’t need that.
ME: And he won’t put up with her crap.
POPE: True.
POPE: You do the other thing?
ME: Just left.
POPE: How you feeling about it?
ME: Conflicted. Needs to be done but I’m not quite there yet.
POPE: Don’t push yourself. Baby steps, brother. Too much too soon could send you backwards.
ME: Thanks for the reminder. Got a good idea of how things should play out when I’m ready. Should be beneficial.
POPE: Good.
POPE: Gonna call Tate?
My stomach rollsinto a tight little ball. I have every intention of calling her, I’m dying to actually, but I’m so worried I’ll call, ask her out for coffee, and she’ll shut me down because she’s seeing someone else, so I keep coming up with reasons not to do it.
Out of respect for my recovery, no one, not even Theo, has been giving me Tate updates. Outside of the messages we exchange, I have no idea what she’s been doing for the past three months. I don’t know if she’s still at The Dollhouse—probably—don’t know if she started school—not yet since it’s June—I don’t know shit and that’s eating at me just as much as not seeing her. So the possibility of her meeting someone else,datingsomeone else, is very real. I mean, she works at a goddamn strip club. That big marine looking dude is probably already in love with Tate and just waiting to sweep her off her feet.
Fuck.
I have to call her though. I won’t know what she’ll say until I do it but this shit is killing me. I’ve had anxiety issues my entire life, panic attacks since I was a kid, but once I was old enough to drink that took the edge off. Then I started using dope and it went away completely.
Feeling all of my feelings, dealing with my emotions totally sober and clear-minded has been a major adjustment and brought my anxiety roaring to the surface again. It’s ok though. I’m ok. It’s important I do this and even if it means I lost the only woman I can honestly say I loved, then I’ll deal with that too.
