Read Online Crush by Laura Susan Johnson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Susan Johnson
Ads: Link
feelings I’m having. Feelings that are new . Feelings that are real . I see the distinction between what I experienced with myparents and myfeelings for Tammy.
I’m shy, far too shy to approach Tammy Mattheis and talk to him. My introversion is an enduring consequence of the life I lived before Lloyd changed everything with those bolt cutters. I’ve had to spend a lot of my energy pushing away memories of the abuse I suffered, and it’s exhausting. Miss Halliday, the psychologist Lloyd sends me to, tries to help as much as she can. She’s very kind and open-minded, and the wayshe lets her yellow hair hang down on her shoulders instead of wearing it in a severe bun puts me at ease. Lloyd’s debriefed her on all the incest and abuse, but because I can’t stand to talk about it, and because she doesn’t force me to, I don’t think the counseling’s done me much good.
I’m frightened when I wake up with an erection. Being told in Sex-Ed class that “morning wood” is a “natural and normal occurrence in adolescent boys” makes absolutely no difference. Because I see my dad’s when I see mine. And I don’t love him anymore, I hate him. I’m ashamed. Because I feel dirty. Because it feels so good .All these ingredients boil together in a witch’s brew of disarray, foreboding and degradation. I can’t bear to open up to Miss Halliday about the darkest details of my childhood, and her not being the pushy type is either a blessing to my mangled emotions or a defeat to mycomplete recoveryand understanding.
Miss Halliday asks, “Do you think your parents committed suicide because theyfelt guiltyabout what theydid to you?”
As I sit in a chair in her office, I onlyshrug at her, digging my indexnail into the glossy, softened, splintered wood of the arm.
I wish I knew.
I’m diagnosed with anxiety and depression, and Miss Halliday prescribes Zoloft, which makes me feel everything less intensely, which is great for me, until Stacy remarks that it’s making me into a zombie.After the first bottle is gone, I pretend to Miss Hallidayand Lloyd that I’m getting it refilled, but I don’t think I need it.
In September, she’s ready to give up our weekly sessions and see me once every other month, but even with this new schedule, her hopes of getting me to trust her and volunteer my childhood skeletons are in vain. I just can’t bear to let those memories out. I have to keep them in check, securely subdued in my mind, lest they assert themselves in all their hideous, pornographic detail. I can’t talk about them to anyone, not even dear Lloyd. Close as we are, this is one topic that is too demoralizing to raise even with him. I can’t even talk about it with Stacy.
It’s worse when Pastor Sellers talks to the adolescent portion of his congregation about how, now that our bodies are changing, we must take extra steps to avoid the sins of the flesh. “Better to cut your hand off if it causes you to sin,” he says, “or poke your eye out if it causes you to lust.”
I’m already liable. My experiences with sexuality make me ashamed, and my inexperience with intimacy makes me withdrawn and lacking in that sophistication that most of the kids my age already have, but I have enough knowledge deep down inside to feel guilty about these new feelings. All I know are my feelings. There are no words in mybrain when I look at Tammy, at his tall, strong body, the chiseled features of his godlike face, the dark stubble over his lips, jaw and chin, the eyes the color of the ocean I love so much. There are only these wonderful, sinful emotions that surge through me and leave me weak and breathless. The more Pastor talks about them, the more guiltridden I feel.
So I admire him from afar. I stare at him at school, at church, on the football field, everywhere I can possibly see him. I’m happier and sadder and more ashamed than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m so determined to see him playfootball everysingle Friday night,
I’m shy, far too shy to approach Tammy Mattheis and talk to him. My introversion is an enduring consequence of the life I lived before Lloyd changed everything with those bolt cutters. I’ve had to spend a lot of my energy pushing away memories of the abuse I suffered, and it’s exhausting. Miss Halliday, the psychologist Lloyd sends me to, tries to help as much as she can. She’s very kind and open-minded, and the wayshe lets her yellow hair hang down on her shoulders instead of wearing it in a severe bun puts me at ease. Lloyd’s debriefed her on all the incest and abuse, but because I can’t stand to talk about it, and because she doesn’t force me to, I don’t think the counseling’s done me much good.
I’m frightened when I wake up with an erection. Being told in Sex-Ed class that “morning wood” is a “natural and normal occurrence in adolescent boys” makes absolutely no difference. Because I see my dad’s when I see mine. And I don’t love him anymore, I hate him. I’m ashamed. Because I feel dirty. Because it feels so good .All these ingredients boil together in a witch’s brew of disarray, foreboding and degradation. I can’t bear to open up to Miss Halliday about the darkest details of my childhood, and her not being the pushy type is either a blessing to my mangled emotions or a defeat to mycomplete recoveryand understanding.
Miss Halliday asks, “Do you think your parents committed suicide because theyfelt guiltyabout what theydid to you?”
As I sit in a chair in her office, I onlyshrug at her, digging my indexnail into the glossy, softened, splintered wood of the arm.
I wish I knew.
I’m diagnosed with anxiety and depression, and Miss Halliday prescribes Zoloft, which makes me feel everything less intensely, which is great for me, until Stacy remarks that it’s making me into a zombie.After the first bottle is gone, I pretend to Miss Hallidayand Lloyd that I’m getting it refilled, but I don’t think I need it.
In September, she’s ready to give up our weekly sessions and see me once every other month, but even with this new schedule, her hopes of getting me to trust her and volunteer my childhood skeletons are in vain. I just can’t bear to let those memories out. I have to keep them in check, securely subdued in my mind, lest they assert themselves in all their hideous, pornographic detail. I can’t talk about them to anyone, not even dear Lloyd. Close as we are, this is one topic that is too demoralizing to raise even with him. I can’t even talk about it with Stacy.
It’s worse when Pastor Sellers talks to the adolescent portion of his congregation about how, now that our bodies are changing, we must take extra steps to avoid the sins of the flesh. “Better to cut your hand off if it causes you to sin,” he says, “or poke your eye out if it causes you to lust.”
I’m already liable. My experiences with sexuality make me ashamed, and my inexperience with intimacy makes me withdrawn and lacking in that sophistication that most of the kids my age already have, but I have enough knowledge deep down inside to feel guilty about these new feelings. All I know are my feelings. There are no words in mybrain when I look at Tammy, at his tall, strong body, the chiseled features of his godlike face, the dark stubble over his lips, jaw and chin, the eyes the color of the ocean I love so much. There are only these wonderful, sinful emotions that surge through me and leave me weak and breathless. The more Pastor talks about them, the more guiltridden I feel.
So I admire him from afar. I stare at him at school, at church, on the football field, everywhere I can possibly see him. I’m happier and sadder and more ashamed than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m so determined to see him playfootball everysingle Friday night,
Similar Books
