Did Grant scar himself? Did he ruin his neck and face intentionally, so he looked like the monster he felt himself to be?
I try not to react. On the outside, I hope to appear curious and interested, but on the inside, I’m scared.
A deep sense of dread fills me as I wait to learn the answer to my question.
Chapter 36.
“I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel….”
― Nine Inch Nails
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant's entire body suddenly stiffens as he rolls onto his back and turns his head to face me. A fiery spark appears in his eyes. He’s seriously pissed.
Is he angry with me, or with himself?
“When I realized I couldn’t feel, it freaked me out,” he says. “I experienced an overwhelming compulsion to punch my fists through a wall—to somehow hurt myself badly enough in order to feel… something… anything.”
I struggle to remain calm. It’s difficult in the face of his rage, as well as with the thought of Grant hurting himself so terribly he'd be forever scarred.
“Did you?” I ask. “Punch a wall, I mean?”
“Sure, many times. I don’t know whether I wanted to punish myself because I hated the monster I felt I was, or if I just needed to feel. I also got into fights. I drove recklessly, getting into accidents and totaling two cars. Dying seemed… attractive—and pain?” His eyes are hard, his features intense. “Pain was good.”
Propped up on one elbow, I stare back at Grant.
I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me, I trust him. Yet, adrenaline spikes in response to his anger, elevating my heart rate and heating my skin. I consciously begin taking slow, deep breaths, aware that I could easily slide into my own brand of crazy.
When people around me are upset, I blame myself. Why should I feel responsible for other people’s moods or unhappiness? I shouldn’t. Yet, I do. It’s as though I’ve screwed up somehow. I expect them to point the finger at me… and I’m terrified of confrontation.
See how insane I am?
At least I’ve gained enough insight over the years not to immediately jump on board the crazy train on a one-way trip to guilt city.
Now, I force myself to remain calm and wait to find out what's going on first. It's a step in the right direction, considering how I used to panic instantly at the first sign anything was wrong.
Luckily, Grant doesn’t seem to notice my reaction. Although he's looking at me, he isn’t really seeing me. In this moment, he's somewhere else. Is he back there again, lost in his past?
Grant exhales loudly. “Then I discovered alcohol, which helped me—I swear to God, it really helped and I also joined the army. Somehow, despite my mad death wish, I survived.”
“I’m glad you did, Grant. I'm so glad you’re here with me now,” I whisper.
If I speak out loud, my voice will crack. I doubt I can hide the raw emotion that’s welling up within me. I feel as though I’ve been gutted.
The mere thought of losing him breaks my heart. It kills me—absolutely kills me!
I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to cry.
I'm abruptly aware of the tension leaving Grant’s body. He’s relaxing for the first time since we lay down together. After opening up and sharing his past, he seems to have snapped out of the chasm of darkness into which he’d descended.
He shifts his position slightly so he can see me better. With a pillow under his head and me lying on my side, propped up on one elbow, Grant's intense gaze is overwhelming.
A palpable energy passes between us. Grant searches my face. I blink but can barely hold back my tears.
I ‘get’ him, I really do. I completely understand where he’s coming from because I’ve been there myself. My experience was different from his, but similar in many ways.
With his penetrating gaze I feel as if he’s looking into my heart and soul. Is he aware of my anguish? Does he see the pain I feel for him, reflected in my eyes?
His smoky blue-grey eyes soften.
I can’t be an objective therapist when he looks at me like that! I gasp, desperately trying to keep it together. Shock and dismay fill me as the tears have been brimming in my eyes begin to overflow.
Gently, tenderly, he pulls my body onto his, so I’m resting against his warm chest. “Renata,” he murmurs.
I can’t help it—I cry even harder.
“It’s OK. It’s OK,” he murmurs almost rhythmically in a calm, comforting tone as his big hands glide over my back, gently stroking and calming me.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp.
“Shhh, shhh, you’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no reason to be sorry,” he soothes.
I bury my face into the curve of his neck and hold onto him tightly, letting the even beat of his heart and the deep rumble of his voice calm me. In a minute, I’ll pull myself together, but just now, I just need him to hold me like this.
I’m no longer premenstrual, trapped at the monthly circus, juggling my emotions or walking on the hormonal tightrope and trying not to fall off. I can’t use that as an excuse, but damn it to hell, I’m an emotional wreck at the thought of losing him.
I want him.
I need him!
I never want to let him go.
Grant is incredible. He’s so courageous! He's been to hell and back more than once. He's served our country, overcome his addiction to alcohol, confronted his demons and exposed his secrets, and his shame. Stubbornly and determinedly, he’s working through the pain and torment of his past. He’s been in so much pain and turmoil—so sad and so alone for such a long time.
I can’t stop crying, but I allow myself to let go, as I absorb his strength and his caring energy. It's so healing, so beautiful.
With all he’s been through, he’s still thinking of me. He hates touching, yet he’s cuddling and comforting me.
I can’t help but have a high regard for this brave and damaged man. He gives me strength. In the midst of his own problems, he sets them aside, in order to help me.
I admire him so much.
I love him.
My tears ease after a little while and I‘m finally able to stop taking the short hitching breaths I’ve been struggling to stifle. I begin to appreciate that something important is happening.
I can’t believe it—he’s actually cuddling!
Grant’s big, solid body remains relaxed beneath mine. It reminds me of when he discovered he could hold my hand and even kiss me.
It may only be temporary, but for now it seems he’s broken through yet another one of his barriers.
I wonder if I should remain silent and stay right here, snuggling with him and letting him continue to touch me. If I point it out, I risk ruining this perfect moment.
What would André tell me to do?
I imagine asking André for advice, and immediately hear his wise and playful tone of voice in my head, “Ma petite souris, trust yourself. The head—at times, it fails us—but the heart? Ah! The heart sees what the mind cannot. Let your heart be your guide and you will make the right choice.”
An image flashes through my mind, a recent memory of Grant and I eating graham crackers and chatting at Grant’s kitchen table. He was upbeat at the time. What did he say? He explained why he’d felt comfortable masturbating in front of me and making me come. He was clarifying why he didn’t feel the need to run away.
“I wanted to please you. It made everything we were doing seem good and clean and right somehow,” he’d told me.
The truth suddenly hits me. Like the Greek scholar Archimedes, I do everything I can not to cry out Eureka!
That's it! That's the similar element to that night. When Grant attempts intimacy, he hits a wall. Then his innermost issues are triggered, holding him back.
However, Grant was able to break through his own barriers by centering his attention on me. This seems to be the key to his success, focusing on someone other than himself.
This speaks volumes about his gener
ous nature and inner goodness.
I raise my head and meet Grant’s gaze, aware I can’t tell him my revelation. It’s not up to a counselor to tell a client what’s wrong with them. How could anyone know such a personal truth?
A counselor can ask, or direct a client to a fruitful area to look, but it’s not something they should have fixed ideas upon or openly guess at. This kind of thing just muddies the water.
Only the exact truth sets someone free.
Who can know their own personal truth? Only the individual concerned.
For all the experience and knowledge a counselor can have, they are not the client. They haven’t walked in his or her shoes. Every journey is unique. Even if they’ve temporarily forgotten, no one can know the client as clearly as the client knows themselves.
You can’t give someone else a truth about themselves—that’s for them to do. That’s why it’s called self-realization.
Grant studies me and the worry on his face lessens. I wipe my eyes with my forearm. His shirt is wet from my tears. We smile at each other.
“Feel better now?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you,” I say. He has his arms wrapped around my waist. Awed, I say to him, “You’re touching me.”
“Yes.”
He’s wearing an expression I can’t interpret. My brows knit with concentration. What am I missing?
“You seem relaxed,” I say.
“I am.”
“So, do I need to cry—for you to feel comfortable touching or cuddling with me?”
He arches one eyebrow. “No,” he shakes his head and says with a chuckle, “but apparently it helps.”
Chapter 37.
“Find one person to trust—there need only be one. With them, share every shame, every secret and listen to theirs… with love. Bare hearts and souls until there is understanding. Of a certainty, such honest exposure is the first step toward happiness.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant’s lips turn up in a smile as he shifts his body upward and settles himself back against the headboard in a seated position. Putting both of his hands on my waist, with natural ease and no sign of effort, he picks me up and lifts me across his lap so I’m straddling him.
He’s so strong and so male. I feel tiny and feminine in his hands.
Face to face with him, I reach out and flatten my palms against his chest. I love the intimacy and closeness of this position. It’s a shame we’re both fully clothed. Grant’s big hands, warm against my waist, slide down to rest lightly on my hips. He’s studying me with a peculiar expression on his face.
“What?” I say
“I no longer have a death wish,” he assures me. “Especially now, with you in my life, I can’t think like that anymore.”
“Aww, that’s nice.” I adore the soothing comfort of his solid, masculine body under my hands. “I was worried…” I say, nervously, “that maybe in a moment of despair, you gave yourself those scars.”
“Oh.” Grant smiles wryly, a glint of twisted humor behind his eyes.
He’s amused by my mistake. This is another example of it’s funny, but it isn’t. Grant and I seem to have a lot of those moments. I ignore this one.
“Will you tell me how you were injured?” I ask. “How did you get those scars?
He inhales deeply. “Do you have any dark and terrible secrets? Something you haven’t even told André?”
My thumbnail goes between my teeth where I begin to chew on it. After a few moments of bracing myself for my confession, I let out a deep breath and say, “I have a lot of terrible things I feel guilty or ashamed of, but there’s one main thing—one secret that turns me inside out. It's almost impossible to accept or to get past. It’s something I did again and again.”
His expression is curious and concerned. “What is it? Will you tell me?”
I summon the strength to face a horror from my past that haunts me. I hate going back there, to that time and place. It's difficult to say it out loud. In a strange way, doing so makes it feel too real.
“I remember the first time my dad beat my mom really badly. I heard such strange sounds, thuds and muffled screams. Mom was crying. I went into the room and saw her covered with blood—my dad had broken her nose.”
I pause to slow my breathing. Grant’s eyes soften with understanding, but he says nothing,
Smart guy.
If he interrupts me I don’t know if I can go on.
I clear my throat. “I guess I was three or four—or possibly even younger. I was so upset by what I saw that I freaked out. I can’t even explain the gripping fear that held me. I screamed and screamed. To shut me up, my father slapped me so hard I flew across the room. My right ear rang for days—but screaming worked. He stopped hurting my mother.”
“Is your father dead?” he asks, his voice a low growl and his expression intent. “Because if he’s not, I’m going to kill him.”
Warmed and strangely charmed by his statement, I laugh, perhaps a little too loudly. Not because I imagine Grant will ever get the chance to kill my father, but hey, it’s the thought that counts.
His jaw is taut. My story has affected him. I think back to how he stood up for Danny when he was bullied as a kid. I know Grant has many layers, but one part I'm sure of is that he's a natural born protector.
“No, my father’s still alive,” I tell him. “Luckily for the population at large, he’s safely locked up in jail. I don’t think they’ll ever let him out, but the Board has to interview me whenever he’s up for parole. I think it’ll be years before I have to worry about that.”
“Good.”
“I agree. Anyway, about my greatest shame.” I chew my thumbnail right down to the quick. “I don’t know if I’ve told André about this or not. The thing is, from the first time I screamed, I learned all I had to do to stop my mother from being beaten was to scream. But I also knew he’d stop hurting her and instead hurt me, do you see?”
“Of course,” Grant says.
“My father must've beaten my mother a thousand times,” I muse, gnawing on what’s left of my thumbnail. “But I only stopped him that one time. I'd always run and hide. I learned to be silent, never making a peep—I'd do anything I could to save my own skin. I was afraid of him and afraid of being hit. He terrified me. I mean, no matter what I did or didn't do, I wasn't safe from his wrath. My father hit me anyway, but I’ve never had a single brave bone in my body—that’s what I’m most ashamed of.”
Grant shakes his head.
“Studies show childhood trauma leads to a brain that’s wired for fear. Do you know what André says about that?”
“No, what does he say?”
“Une absurdité totale—utter nonsense.” I grin. “The truth is, the studies are correct. André refuses to agree with research that, as he says, makes victims feel justified in their decision to give up!”
We both laugh out loud, because I’ve managed to perfectly enact André’s accent and mannerisms.
“That’s an amazing André impersonation,” Grant marvels.
“Thank you,” I say with a shrug. “I’ve watched him for many years. André doesn’t agree with even valid excuses to fail,” I add. He maintains that, ‘With time? With effort? All can be conquered.’ Yet, for me, mind-numbing fear and anxiety has ruled my life.”
Grant’s eyes widen. “I had no idea! You hide it well. To me you seem so… fearless.”
“You think I’m fearless?” I say, grinning ear to ear.
He smiles. “You are in the bedroom—a place where I’m particularly spineless.”
“You’re not spineless, you just need practice,” I say. “Wow. I don’t know if I’ll get over that in the near future! Grant thinks I’m fearless! Grant thinks I’m fearless!” I happily sing out loud.
His eyes soften. “You’re fearless with me.”
“That’s easy,” I say. “I have nothing to be afraid of with you. You may make my pulse
pound and my breath speed so I pant as if running a marathon, but I’m not afraid with you.” I waggle my eyebrows at him.” You make me feel something else entirely.”
We stare at each other stupidly as sensual electricity zings between us.
“I’m pretty good with people one on one,” I explain, “but strangers and groups can still send me into a panic. It’s humiliating to be like this. You can have no concept of the courage it takes for me to leave my apartment in the morning.”
“I know you climb into that little black box.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Is that why you have it?”
“Lord, yes,” I say. “There’s a long story about my attraction to small, dark places,” I say with a laugh. “I’ll explain it to you sometime.”
“I’ve never been aware of how debilitating your fear must be,” he says.
I snort. “Years of practice. I learned to fit in, I guess.” I shrug. “The only other time I ever stood up to my father was when he had Timmy in his hands during a rage. Despite my pounding heart and my limbs frozen with fear, I forced myself to run and throw myself on him. I was so desperate to protect my brother. I couldn’t save Timmy, you know? But at least I tried.”
“I’m so sorry,” Grant says, exhaling a deep breath. He looks as pained as I feel.
“If I hadn’t at least tried,” I confide in him, “I couldn’t have lived with myself. You of all people would understand that strange longing for numbness or death. Those kinds of thoughts used to plague me whenever I felt low. Sometimes dying seemed like what I deserved, but I definitely couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t at least tried to save Timmy. Does that make any sense to you?”
“It makes perfect sense,” he says, pulling a stray lock of hair away from my face and tucking it behind my ear. “I’ve had my share of those kinds of thoughts too,” Grant admits calmly. “Sometimes I think that’s what suicide is—when you believe you’re no good, so you decide to throw yourself away. As if you’re doing the universe a favor by taking out the trash.”