Page 77 of Salute, To Bravery

Violet

I have been in a panic all week; not having any sleep didn’t help. I haven’t been able to eat without remembering how he acted towards Ophelia. I hated how he treated her like that—how he treated Ophelia like she was some old newspaper, not holding any purpose.

My eyes stayed on the road as I drove towards my therapy appointment.

This was my second session with this group.

I liked them, but I missed the other group.

It was impossible not to miss them. It was impossible to miss their courage, bravery, and hearing their stories.

The girls in my new group were nice and brave, but we didn’t click.

I made a promise; I would stay at this place until it did click.

After pulling into the therapy center, I turned off my music and shut off the car. I took a few deep breaths and grabbed my things—locking my red car on my way inside the beige building.

The boring building had the same format as my old therapy center. It had the same colors, uncomfortable chairs, and the unwelcoming smile of a receptionist who disliked her job.

I checked in with the receptionist and went back to the group room. The group room was full of soft yellows and pinks; it looked like Easter threw up there.

“Hey, Violet,” Alma said, she was a new girl to the group, too. So, we buddied up together.

“Hey, Alma.” I smiled. Her hair was dark brown, and she had beautiful eyes. Alma had Bindis and cultural earrings on. Then I added, “I love your earrings.”

“Thank you.” She had the most beautiful smile; it was genuine.

That was when Camila, my new therapist, came in. She had the clearest skin I’d ever seen. It had no bumps, no zits, and no scars. It was as if she were an angel.

“Welcome everyone.” She sat down with her tablet in her arms, ready to take notes. “Does anyone have something they would like to share before we get started?”

People could share whatever was on their chest, then the next person would talk, and by the end of it, we made comments, and then we did a meditation. It was a different format from what I was used to.

“I have something to share,” I said.

Everything inside me broke.

I told them what had happened, first from the confrontation with Ophelia, then to the days I spent helping her clean and getting her life together, and finally told them about dinner. I couldn’t help but let the tears fall.

“My father was so cruel, ignoring her most of the time, I even told him to be nice but then he just ignored that.” I paused to catch my breath.

“I’ve only seen him like that when I came out to him.

It was terrifying. He had such anger in his eyes, just disappointment in me.

Then knowing how badly that must’ve triggered Ophelia. ”

I looked up at the tiled ceiling, trying to make the tears go away. “It just broke my heart. Oh, and get this, Ophelia thinks my father sent her away to Japan.”

There were gasps all over the room.

“Yeah, it makes sense though. He hates that I’m pansexual. He hates that I’m dating a woman. He doesn’t accept me, even though he vowed he would love me for who I am when he adopted me. He doesn’t love me for who I am, he loves the idea of me. What should I do?”

“I think you need to talk with him, set up a boundary with him first, then try to talk to him about how you feel and how he treated Ophelia,” Camila said.

“No, just confront him! He doesn’t deserve for you to be nice—” one of the ladies said.

“We are trying to help her, not make a bigger mess of things,” Camila said.

“Okay.” I considered their options. I wanted to confront him. I wanted to show him the pain and anger that he had caused, but I knew that would make things worse. “I’ll talk to him.”

Everyone cheered.

I smiled but didn’t want to. My heart was in my throat.

My knee was shaking, along with my hands.

I knew what was to come if I talked to him.

It would end in fighting and both of us getting hurt.

I didn’t want to hurt him. Having that conversation was not the most desired thing, but I knew I would have to.

I knew that if I didn’t, Ophelia would get hurt, and I couldn’t have that.

I couldn’t face her broken heart knowing that I caused it, even if it was indirectly.

I stared off into the distance, trying to make a plan, but every situation came to the same unbearable decision: having to choose between both of them, the two people who I cared about the most. By the time I came to terms with it, everyone was leaving, and Camila stopped me before I could leave.

“Hey, so I want you to set up boundaries like ‘I don’t want to fight,’ and other things like that, so that this conversation doesn’t turn for the worst. Have a good day, Violet, I hope everything goes well.”

“Thank you.”

I walked out to my car, turned the key in the ignition, and turned up the music to the loudest it could go, to where I could feel it in my bones.

I had to drown my emotions; I had to feel like I wasn’t screaming underwater.

Faking all emotions but pain felt like the best option—and the only way to do that was through music.

I drove to my dad’s house, and about forty-five minutes later I was there. Frozen in my seat with anxiety, moving didn’t seem like an option. Until I heard a knock on my car door.

It was him, my dad.