The Art of Being a F*ck Up

32. Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

Does it always feel like this? I had to have been a person before Jonah; there had to have been things I wanted or dreams I hoped to achieve. I can't quite remember them now, not when all I have is this fatal heartbreak that still continues to threaten me almost a week after we broke up. I'm back on this threadbare couch, to the only home left to me, and I can't even find the strength to get up. My body's weak, I just constantly feel ill, and I've been crying more in the last couple days than I have in my entire life—more than I thought I ever could. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, but honestly, I can't escape the thought that I would rather just be dead.

Who's going to miss me now? It's not hard to guess that I'm too much of a coward to try anything like that, so I'm forced to deal with it head on even when I'm unable to comprehend this crippling grief. I love Jonah. How am I ever supposed to love anyone else, or stop loving him? If it wasn't beating I might think my heart had been ripped right out of my chest because it hurts so fucking bad, and the dark places my mind has taken me since is probably the reason I ended up back here again, at my dad's.

"It's the middle of the goddamn day, get your ass up!" He comes out of nowhere, trying to pull the blanket off. He hadn't seemed all that surprised when I showed up, but then, maybe he was expecting it. I think he can see my life unraveling, and while he still doesn't give a shit, that's something he can probably relate to. It's so fucked up that I owe him any gratitude, but I don't know what I would've done if he'd turned me away. For whatever reason, he hasn't been as hard on me this time, though I hardly pay any attention to him as I snatch the blanket back and roll over.

"We done talked about all this, we got a business to run, you can't keep calling off work. And what about school? You think they're going to give a shit that you broke up with your boyfriend?" There's no empathy in him at all when he addresses me. Why would there be? I don't think he's ever really loved anybody, not even my mom, so how could he possibly know what it feels like to lose what I've lost? None of that matters, I can already hear him telling me to be a man, but I've been doing that for so long and I don't have the strength to keep that up anymore either.

"I'm serious, you need to get up!" He tries yet again to pull the blanket back, but I just clutch it tighter, wanting him to go away. What good would it do to still give a damn about school, or work, or any of it at this point? My life's been on the same dead-end road since I was born, but at least I used to have a reason to keep trying, something and someone I could aim to be worthy of. Now I have nothing, and it's a terrible thought that cuts at me even deeper so I try to push it away, escape it, but I can't and I hate that my dad gets to see me like this.

"Leave me alone," I want to be mean, to sound tough or angry, but it comes out so soft and pathetic that I expect him to pounce on my glaring weakness right away. Instead he sighs, sitting on the arm of the couch quietly.

"Look, I told you, this is a good thing. This thing you've been doing for the past couple years with that guy isn't right—now's your chance to be normal." He pats my leg, continuing to make everything worse when he turns what I had with Jonah into perversion. I had stood up to him before, defended it, but that was when it mattered and I just don't see why it does anymore so I take it. I just fucking take it. Not even he can make me feel any worse, so I let him say his fill until he finally comes back to his point, "you'll be glad this happened one day, you'll see. You'll meet a girl, start a family, and forget this ever happened."

What does he expect me to say? The only time he can show even a modicum of empathy is when he thinks I'm anything close to what he thought I should be. When I'm most like him. After he waits a bit longer he finally leaves to go to the garage, and I'm back in the quiet I hate so much while I try to decide how I'm going to get through the next ten years, the next ten months. The next ten minutes. This is it, I've come to the very end of this dead-end road I've always been on, and I'm disgusted at myself, my life—everything. I'm powerless, I can't change it, there's nothing I can do.