The next twenty-four hours were probably the hardest for me -- trying to make sure I was giving Justin the support he needed without smothering him. Trying to not jump to conclusions when he chose to engage in one of the activities he’d written down on his safety plan -- practicing yoga -- and not assume that he was back in a bad place just because he wanted to take some time to do it alone in our bedroom with the door closed. Trying to not make Justin feel like I didn’t trust him, and reminding myself that what Justin had been looking for was relief from pain -- a deep, emotional pain -- and he needed to work through finding ways to get that relief, and more effective ways he could channel his feelings. Trying to go on with my own life as best I could in the meantime, to help keep myself from hovering.
I was the least present I possibly could have been on that conference call with Remsen, but as usual, Cynthia saved the day, before telling me in no uncertain terms that she’d take care of anything else that needed to be done, and I wasn’t to concern myself with it. But I needed the distraction. And her insistence made me wonder how much more she knew, or how much she’d inferred from how mentally spent I was -- if she’d already figured out that the situation was much more serious than Justin coming down with a virus or something else equally innocuous.
I tried to find as much distraction as I could in work, and, blessedly, Cynthia didn’t say anything else to me about it. I stayed out of the Remsen account because I didn’t want to fuck it up, but I had dozens of smaller accounts I could work on, and that was exactly what I did. I spent the majority of the day sitting at my desk in our home office, with my right foot propped up on a pillow in the chair Justin sat in when he worked on his own computer, while Justin did what he needed to do to take care of himself.
That day, I felt like I was sharing the apartment with a shell of my husband, and it made me realize just how long that had been happening while I tried to pretend nothing was wrong. It seemed like all of Justin’s zest for life was gone, and I could tell he was struggling even with his simple mission of “do what feels good to you and what will help support you.” He spent a large portion of the day in bed, though I’m not sure how much time he spent sleeping compared to how much was spent watching TV or reading, because I was trying to give him space.
Meanwhile, I was struggling with how best to support him. I hadn’t felt that out of my element when it came to knowing what to do to help Justin since the bashing, when I’d felt like I was just feeling my way through blindly, trying not to fuck up and do more harm than good. Somehow we’d made it through back then, even though in retrospect, I’m not so sure that some of what I did was smartest decision -- such as trying to fuck his fear of being touched right out of him or taking him back to that goddamned parking garage where I nearly lost my shit because I was still seeing his blood on the concrete. This time, I decided to try to stop overthinking it and just follow his lead, though at times that was easier said than done, because I knew there were things he needed to do to take care of himself -- like eat -- that he probably still didn’t feel like doing. So I had to give him gentle reminders sometimes, but he was receptive to them, and he did eat, though it was obvious he didn’t have his usual appetite. Still, he was trying, and that was enough.
Justin had an odd, anxious energy about him that was palpable that day -- just as he'd have for many days to come. That shame was there too. God, was it there. So much that it hurt me to just have to sit there and watch and not be able to fix it. I knew there were probably things that he wanted to say but didn’t know how, and I didn’t press, because I didn’t want to inadvertently end up pushing him over the edge. I had to be patient and let the process play out exactly as it needed to, and that was hard. Really fucking hard.
I was working on a slogan for a new pitch -- mostly just doing a lot of typing and erasing and revising because I felt like my creative energy was completely missing that day -- when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head to see Justin standing in the doorway.
He had his arms wrapped around his midsection, like he was protecting himself from something, and he looked nervous. Just the sight of him sent my heart into my throat and made me afraid of why he was standing there -- what he might say, or what he needed. Whether or not he was coming to me because he was sliding back into the bad place again. And what would I do if he was?
“You okay?” I asked, honestly afraid of the answer, but at the same time knowing that I couldn’t allow myself to give into that fear. Not again.
Justin nodded, looking down at the floor briefly before looking back up at me. “Yeah,” he said. “I just… I need to get out of the apartment. Go for a walk or something. If you want to go.” He focused his gaze on my computer screen, then added, “But if you have to work, that’s okay. I can wait.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said, trying my damndest to keep my voice casual even though inside I was elated that Justin was taking this step toward normal all on his own. It was a tiny step, but still, a step. And I was surprised, but I certainly wasn’t going to object. “We can go wherever you want. Do whatever you need.”
I quickly saved my work and closed the window, then shot Cynthia a quick instant message to tell her I was taking a break, and Justin and I went for a walk. It wasn’t our longest walk ever, but it felt good to get out in the sunshine, and it felt even better to hold Justin’s hand and reestablish the connection I’d been missing. We didn’t say much, but we didn’t have to -- we were together, and that was all that mattered. I could tell it wasn’t easy for Justin to be out like that, but he seemed to know it was important for him to step outside of his comfort zone a little. Again, he was trying. Trying to do what he needed to do to take care of himself and support himself, which would ultimately be the overarching theme of the next several months of our lives.
When we got back to the apartment, Justin went to take a long, hot shower -- more for therapy and relaxation than anything -- while I tried to get back into my work, albeit unsuccessfully. I still couldn’t concentrate for shit because my mind was all over the place, trying to figure out what was next for Justin and myself, which made it all but impossible to think of a clever slogan or a catchy layout. I was just about to give up and try to find something else to distract myself with -- something a little less high-risk that didn’t involve my livelihood -- when I thought I heard a knock on our apartment door.
I had no idea who the fuck it could be, since I wasn’t expecting any visitors and I honestly didn’t think Justin was expecting any either, particularly not with the state he was in. Unsolicited sales calls typically weren’t something we had to worry about in our building, thanks to the doorman, but occasionally one would somehow sneak by and come knocking. I hoped that was all it was, and that I’d be able to get rid of them quickly, assuming I could manage to harness my usual sardonic wit in spite of how mentally drained I felt.
I leaned forward to look out the lower of the two peepholes that were on our front door, fully expecting to get my usual view of someone’s shirt, but instead, I saw Rob’s face. Part of me was surprised to see him, because I knew he’d recognize Justin’s and my need for space and privacy, but another part of me wasn’t surprised at all, because I also knew Rob’s midwestern upbringing wouldn’t allow him to watch a friend go through a difficult time without trying to make everything better with a casserole or a pot of soup.
The first words out of his mouth when I opened the door were, “I’m not staying.” He had a small cooler in his lap, sitting on top of a Tupperware container, all of which he immediately unloaded onto our kitchen island. “I’m just dropping these things off. I know it’s not a good time for visitors, but Adam and the girls made Justin some cookies, and I thought I’d make you guys some vegetable soup too. Easy and nutritious. Where’s Justin?”
“He’s in the shower,” I said. “We just got back from the High Line.”
Rob gave me a slight nod and a small smile, and I knew that he was reading the same thing into that small bit of “normal” as I had. “How’s everything going?”
“It’s as okay as it can be, I think. He’s got another appointment tomorrow. Then three times a week after that for however long it needs to be.”
Rob let out an audible exhale as he picked up the soup containers and turned toward the refrigerator. “I remember those times well. A little too well.”
“I just keep wondering how I didn’t see it.” I looked down, rubbing my thumbnail absently over the leg of my jeans, just to have something to focus on. “Kicking myself because I didn’t.”
Rob closed the refrigerator and pushed himself toward me, then reached his arms out and pulled me into a hug -- the one I was wanting and needing so desperately the night before.
I’m not sure what it was that got to me in that moment -- if it was a need for connection, or for comfort, or if it was how much Rob was reminding me of Debbie, showing up unannounced with food and a hug, and how fucking much I missed her -- but before I knew it, I was blinking back tears and swallowing against a lump in my throat. Rob either felt it or sensed it, and held me tighter as I fought against my own emotions, not letting me go until I managed to get the hitch out of my breath and settle back into a normal, calmer pattern of breathing.
“Brian, look at me.” Rob’s hands were still on my shoulders as he waited for me to comply with his request, which I did reluctantly, because I felt so damned vulnerable that the last thing I wanted to do was look anybody in the eye -- especially not someone who could read me well, the way I knew Rob could. “You can’t keep beating yourself up. It won’t change anything, and it won’t help anybody. So stop. Promise me you’ll stop.”
I closed my eyes, mostly so I wouldn’t have to look at Rob anymore. I knew he was right. I just felt so damn responsible for everything that had happened that it was hard to let go of that sense of blame -- particularly since it was a familiar feeling and place for me to be, and had been ever since I was a kid. Rob didn’t know a whole lot about that part, but he did know about the present-day iteration of those feelings and how pervasive they could be.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “If you need someone to remind you of that, call me. I mean that. Call me any time you need to talk, about anything. And since I know you, I’ll say this up front… You are not a burden or a bother. You’re my friend, and I care about you, and I care about Justin. You can’t help him if you keep blaming yourself for what happened, and you also can’t do this alone. Adam and I are here for both of you, for whatever you need, anytime. Even if it’s two in the morning. Just like you’ve been there for me. Understood?”
I had to laugh a little at Rob’s explicit call-out of every single stumbling block that might keep me from reaching out; he did know me well. “Should I say, ‘Sir, yes, sir?’” I let the corner of my mouth twitch upward into a sardonic grin. It felt good to do that after the heaviness of the previous day. Like getting back to normal in my own way.
“If it means you’ll do it.” Rob smiled back as he reached for his cooler on the countertop and set it in his lap. “Anyway, I’m gonna go. I have to pick up Sophia from her dance class. Call me anytime. That goes for Justin too.”
“Thanks, man.” I paused as Rob gave me a much shorter goodbye hug. “For everything.”
I knew he’d know what that meant without me having to spell it out, and his nod of acknowledgment confirmed that for me. He gave me a reassuring smile and a wink as he left the apartment, just as I heard the water in our master bath finally turn off. I turned and opened the lid on the container of cookies, inhaling the aroma of chocolate chips and butter. They were Justin’s favorite -- a classic chocolate chip cookie, baked just a little bit longer so they’d be crispy on the edges, exactly the way he liked it.
I wasn’t sure what we had done to deserve such good friends -- and I’m not sure I’ll ever understand it completely -- but in that moment, I was grateful to have them.
We ate Rob’s mom’s famous vegetable soup that night, with cookies for dessert, and finally had a night that felt “normal” for the first time in a long time, which was exactly what we needed, especially knowing that Justin’s first “real” therapy appointment, post-breakdown, was early the next morning.
I remember not knowing if Justin would want to go alone -- which I told myself I had to let happen if he wanted it that way, even though the sheer thought made me nervous -- or if he’d want me to come with him. Thankfully, he saved me from asking when he sat down at the table with his meager breakfast of buttered toast -- all he could apparently stomach at that point -- and looked down at his plate to avoid eye contact as he asked me if I could come with him. If I had time, he added, still without looking at me. Of course I had time. I would fucking make time. I’d already made up my mind that I would make time for anything Justin wanted or needed me to do, from that point forward.
The people who’d known the “old” me so many years ago on Liberty Avenue likely would have mocked me for being “whipped,” but as far as I was concerned, they could go fuck themselves. They hadn’t been where I’d been or gone through what I had in my life, and even I could look back and see what an asshole the old me was sometimes, and how I’d stood in the way of my own happiness more than once, seemingly just for spite, or maybe because I felt like that was all I deserved. But that, like a lot of things in my life, was over and done with, long gone. I wasn’t that person anymore. And I was on the precipice of yet another change that had been wrought by an event I could have never predicted that had turned my world upside down.
I sent Cynthia a text to tell her I was taking the morning off -- maybe the rest of the day, depending on how things went -- and I went with Justin to his therapy appointment, where I sat in the waiting room and had a hell of a lot of time to sit and wonder what was happening down the hallway and behind a closed door, and what condition Justin would be in when he came out. If he’d be totally numb, the way he had been right after his breakdown, or if he’d be sad, or angry, or just lost and confused. It turned out to be none of those things.
The Justin that came out of that office spent the rest of the day making it painfully clear that he didn’t want to be alone, and he preferred to be touching me if at all possible -- holding my hand, tucked up against my side, or lying with his head in my lap while I played with his hair. He still didn’t want to talk, and that was fine, but it left me wondering what exactly was behind his suddenly insatiable need for physical contact. Regardless of what the reason was, it gave me back the connection with my husband that I’d been missing so much. One that we’d always had, from the beginning of our relationship -- touch. It was a little unsettling to have Justin clinging to me so hard without telling me why, but everything seemed so fragile and we were both so on edge that I felt like I had to just take things as they came and let Justin talk about it on his own terms, in his own time. It felt strange to have him be so silent though, save for making the occasional idle comment about something on television.
As the afternoon turned into evening, and the bright sunlight outside our windows turned more golden, I started to notice Justin pausing every so often to rub his eyes or massage his temples. Then he turned off the TV -- which I hadn’t even been paying attention to since I was attempting to work on my laptop -- and got up and closed the blinds before curling up in the armchair and burying his face in his arms, which were folded atop his knees. He looked like he was trying to make himself as small as possible, though I didn’t know why, and soon the deep, steady breathing he often did to try to stave off a headache turned into barely audible whimpers as he apparently lost that battle.
I didn’t know if this headache was one of Justin’s “usual” headaches, or if it might be tension related and rooted in all that had happened in the previous 48 hours, especially since I was sure his therapy appointment had likely been focused on starting to work through it all. I knew from my own experience -- completely different as it was -- that sorting through all the dark shit in my brain had been difficult as fuck, and it often left me with a lot to think about. A lot of thoughts that I just needed to sit with for a while. Thoughts that sometimes made me feel anxious or stressed as I tried to process them. And headaches were one of the ways Justin’s body manifested stress. But in the end, I didn’t need to know the cause of the headache. What I needed was to get Justin into bed, relaxed and letting go, physically and mentally.
So that was exactly what I did -- gently coaxing Justin out of the chair by taking his hand and tugging him forward until he got up, then ushering him into the shower, where I hoped the warm water would help him relax. It certainly wasn’t one of our usual shared showers, but it felt just as good to me as one of those would have, because I was taking care of Justin.
After the shower, I led him to bed, which again, was far from our “usual.” I brought him his meds and his favorite tea, and the ice wrap that always seemed to help numb the pain even when nothing else was touching it, then I slid my own body onto the bed alongside his as gently as I possibly could, and opened the bottle of massage oil we hadn’t used in a long time -- longer than I’d realized, once I thought about it. As I slid my hands across Justin’s back and shoulders, kneading the tense muscles with my fingers until I felt them start to soften under my touch, I noticed how much Justin seemed to be leaning into that touch. Savoring it. Much like how I was savoring making the contact at all, after so long with an uncomfortable, mysterious distance between us.
Gradually, I felt Justin’s body start to relax, and his breathing become even and deep, until he was asleep.
I just hoped he was getting some relief -- not only from the physical pain, but also from the chaos and confusion that I was sure was in his mind.
Mostly, though, I was relieved to finally be able to do something for Justin that felt helpful. Something that he needed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it felt a little like atoning for my sins -- starting to make things right where I’d been fucking it all up for far too long. Trying my best to let go of the blame, knowing that I had to because Rob was right. I wasn’t helping either of us by blaming myself. All I could do was help Justin move forward. And I was committed to doing exactly that.