Saugatuck Summer (Saugatuck, #1)(79)
He swallowed audibly. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. You don’t know me well enough to weigh in on that sort of thing yet, Jace. And even if you did, you don’t get to tell me how to manage my own health.” I made myself relax a bit more. I’d have to remember this about Jace: that he could be a self-righteous, judgmental jerk without knowing the whole story at times. Good to know he wasn’t perfect.
I took a few deep breaths and stepped back a little farther from the ledge. “You don’t have to worry about me, though. I’m taking care of myself, making sure the meds I’m on are the right meds. My psychiatrist and I have worked really hard to make sure the side effects are minimal and I’m not on anything I don’t need to be on. I still have a sex drive, I can still come, and I can even drink, so really, I’m not doing too badly. Mostly they just keep me from dropping so deep that I can’t function. They keep me level. At least they will until I don’t qualify for Medicaid anymore and have to pay for the f*cking things. But hey, now at least I can’t be denied health coverage for the preexisting condition, and insurance plans have to provide mental health coverage, so that’s a win.”
“And you don’t think it’s possible your doctor is using meds to shortcut other, more effective treatments?”
“I know she’s not. I’ve been in therapy more than half my life, and it hasn’t been enough. Things got bad for a while back in high school, and they got even worse this last year. I’m doing what I need to do to be healthy.”
“How do you accept it so calmly?”
I shrugged, trying to settle in and get comfortable now that I was calmer. “I’ve lived with it my whole life. And really, it could be a lot worse. I could be self-medicating with booze and drugs. It runs in the family. My grandfather. My mom. My older sister went through period of problem drinking, and my younger sister didn’t get to graduate with her class this spring because she’d missed so much school due to partying too hard.” I snorted when I realized what I was doing. “Shit. Here I am talking about myself and my issues again.”
“What do you mean? I brought it up.”
I stretched out on the bed, trying to shake the feeling of being too conspicuous. Self-centered. Making everything about me. Drawing too much attention to myself, especially while airing dirty laundry.
“What about you?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Going through what you went through as a teenager can’t have left you as undamaged as you seem to be.”
“Knock on wood.” Jace chuckled weakly. “I think you can see why I don’t trust shrinks and psychiatrists much. I was on those sorts of pills while I was in conversion therapy—high doses of pills that did decrease my sex drive. Obliterated it, really, and that was fully intentional on the part of my so-called therapists. I mean, hey, if I wasn’t running around taking it up the ass, I wouldn’t really be a fag, right?” He snorted. “Bigoted quacks should have their licenses revoked. Hell, I didn’t even jerk off for over three years. Didn’t want to and I couldn’t come when I tried. During high school. Even when I was ‘cured’ enough to stop counseling, my parents insisted I remain on the drugs and in the support groups to keep me from ‘relapsing.’ It’s why I was still a virgin when I got to Boston. I went through some really bad withdrawals when I left home because you’re not supposed to quit those things without stepping down gradually. It was very dangerous.”
“Jesus,” I whispered, feeling a little nauseous.
“So yeah, I really don’t care for the idea of those sorts of drugs much, though I guess I can see why it’s a totally different situation for you. I seem to be okay functioning the way I am right now, so why mess with it?”
“That’s good. You’re lucky on that front, at least.” I sighed, my mood still too unstable from my nightmare and the argument not to be left somewhat morose by the conversation. “I’m sorry they did that to you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry for the things that happened to you, too. It looks like neither one of us is coming into this without issues. I’m okay with that.”
I plucked at the edge of the bed sheets with my free hand. “I’m jealous, to be honest. I wish I could be more like you.” Well, that was one of my wishes. The other involved having this conversation snuggled up against him instead of over the phone, but that wasn’t going to happen. “You know, functional without the pills and without feeling like my shit drags down on me all the time. I want to shake it off and be f*cking over it, like it didn’t matter and never will again. I don’t want to spend all my time feeling sorry for myself, or sounding like I feel sorry for myself, because every single conversation somehow comes back to it all. It can’t make me very fun to be around, and I don’t want to use people to get my sympathy fix like my mom does.”
I heard a rustle, as if he was moving. “Angel, your issues are a part of you. It’s not feeling sorry for yourself to discuss the past as it relates to what’s happening in the present. You’re not asking for pity, you’re trying to help me know you better. After I asked. You’re never going to be able to completely divorce who you are now from who you used to be, and if I don’t understand where you’ve come from, how can I ever understand you?”