Page 33 of The Breaking Pointe

cannonball

COLTON

Now that Steven is off to start his new life, snow has covered all parts of the ground, and days are becoming unbearably drawn out, my thoughts feel even more stifled than before. Before Thanksgiving, I hadn’t considered how my first holiday would feel—without her. It’s lonely, even though many people were present, and felt quiet, even though every room I went into was loud. As Christmas creeps closer, so does the feeling of impending doom. The holiday lights haven’t shone as bright for me as they have for other years. So each day I’ve spent working on the new building for Noelle.

I can’t build much, but I can architecturally do my part, and make sure it comes out perfect. It’s all very tedious and all- consuming. Meaning Noelle has gotten less of me. I can tell that it’s piercing at her, and she’s probably thinking of questioning my whereabouts any time now.

She’s being nice and sparing me, but if I tell her what I’m up

to, she’ll try and stop the entire thing. I won’t even give her that opportunity. She needs this—and I need to distract myself.

After a nine day binge of going to the construction site, today I’m switching it up. Therapy. Except today feels exceptionally different, and waking up has just about been the hardest part of the day, thus far. My body feels heavy, and so do my eyelids. My heart is on edge, more than it usually is, and I feel like the smallest man who ever lived. It seems that the motherless child syndrome is kicking into high gear now. I can’t continue to pretend that things aren’t where they are. It’s all gonna blow up, any day now for me. I can feel it.

I would like to not feel anything anymore.

“You’re quiet again. This time it doesn’t seem as positive. Maybe I’m looking too deeply into your mannerisms,”

Dr. Lydia says, watching me.

I shrug, sniffing a bit of air into my lungs.

“Do you want to express why? Or how you’ve been feeling?”

she asks, hopefully nodding.

I shake my head”

No. I’m not…finding solidarity in anything. I think it’s pointless.”

She waits a second before asking another question”

Do you feel safe to talk with anyone else? It doesn’t have to be me, Colton. I’m getting a sense that you’re more sporadic today than usual.”

I exhale through my nose, feeling like a child in the principal’s office.

“Do you feel safe to talk about any of it? Your mother…or father?” she asks.

I briefly close my eyes, then look at her.

“I don’t feel unsafe, alright? There’s consequences to the real me. All it’s ever done was fuck up my relationships, and make

people misunderstand me even more. I would rather not risk whatever good I have going.”

I sit forward”

What’s left of it,” I scoff.

It’s the reason I lose everything—every time I’m myself, or tell the truth. I can’t do it without garnering questions of if I’m in my right mind. This topic makes me unsettled. My knee begins bouncing, and now my jaw is as tight as a hold on a stress ball.

“Would you rather move on? This topic doesn’t seem com- fortable for you right now,” she says.

Bouncing my knee faster, I try to gulp down some saliva, feeling dry at the mouth.

“You know,”

I start, sighing, “if I cried when I was a child, my father would never let me hear the end of it. It was criminal, to him, to show that side of myself.”

I tightly clasp my hands together”

He made me believe that being sensitive wasn’t a good quality to have, and the truth is, I don’t know where to put my emotions right now.”

I never feel relieved when I’m being honest. Another reason to be angry. Along with all my other reasons.

“It sounds like you, too, believe that it isn’t masculine to feel your emotions,”

she suggests.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, because I need to feel something, anything more than surface-level,” I state.

“You’re in control, Colton. Nobody else. Your father isn’t here to dictate when, or how you feel anything,”

she replies, softening her voice to reassure me.

I suck the inside of my cheeks, feeling my attitude boil inside, working its way to a bigger outburst.

“So who dictates when I get pissed off? Or when I become a psycho, jerk-off with no self-control, and I barely remember it?

Who controls the anxiety and panic attacks, Dr, Lydia? I don’t seem to get a say in that part of myself…it just happens,”

I say, stopping my words abruptly as I feel choked up.

I will not cry.

I will not cry.

Dr. Lydia’s face goes dull, frowning at my words”

You’re allowed to feel those feelings, also. There doesn’t have to be a mastermind behind them.”

I lay a hand over my chest, feeling a familiar, electric-like sting rush through my chest. The blood feels like it’s rushing through my body faster, and my breath control is becoming useless.

“I used to be proud of being his son, you know,”

I say quickly”

I would roam around and glorify him,”

I add, forcing a smile as my eyes grow cloudy with tears”

Like a little brainwashed slave.”

I shake my head quickly, sniffling and halting my lament”

He spent years building himself up for me to think of him as a big shot, but in seconds…he made me resent him.”

Dr. Lydia opens her mouth, ready to say something, but I can’t stop yapping long enough for her to get anything out.

“And, to think,”

I purse my lips, “a part of me still wants him to be proud of me. Can you believe that?” I scoff.

“He was your father,”

she stops me”

Your mind might be able to separate that, but your heart can’t always follow through—”

“Why not?”

My words snap at her.

Her chin jolts back at my sudden burst”

I wish I knew,” she says.

I bring my hands to my face to rub it aggressively, trying to make myself snap out of it, but it’s useless.

“Your mother would be proud of you…”

She lowers her voice. I huff, standing up in a scramble.

“Yeah well—she’s not here,”

I say plainly.

“We should take five, Colton—”

She stands up, too, getting ready to stop me, but I make a break for the door.

“I have to go. I’m sorry, Dr. Lydia,”

I interrupt her, rushing out the door.

It’s too late. No five minutes can change what I feel. I bottled it up and packed it so deeply that I have to let myself hit my breaking point. I don’t wanna hold it in anymore. It’s become painful, and it’s sucking the life out of me.

I can’t dictate how I choose to get through this—not this time. My car got me home with lightning speed, and my body nearly rammed through every person in the lobby to get to the stairwell. This might be the only time I can surely say I’ll move quicker than the elevator. I skip a few steps with each lunge up the stairs, huffing and puffing as I push myself until I see the sign labeled with the fourteenth floor. When I get to the top stair, I burst through the door and sprint down the hall until I see my door, fighting with my keys until I get the right one in the lock and

twist it open.

I push it open and immediately close it behind me, frantically looking around.

“Bonnie,”

I weakly call for her, hearing her collar jingle as she trots over to me”

Bonnie—cage,”

I command her, pointing as I rub my face.

Following her, I kneel down and close the door after her, locking it.

“I’m sorry, I love you,”

I whisper, standing up again and stumbling into a nearby table, forced to face the karma of my blurred vision.

“Fuck!”

I scream, gripping the laptop that sat on it and hurling it into a wall.

Straight from my chest, from somewhere deep in the vessels of my heart, I drag out the thickest shriek of a cry, bawling as I storm down the hall and into the bathroom. I rip open the cabinet and reach up to the third shelf, knocking over multiple bottles and medications as I try to grab the most important one, dry heaving in the process.

Clinging my fingers to it, my hands feel numb, and both of them are vigorously moving about, shaking profusely.

Finally, I squeeze the cap, giving it a twist”

Please open…” I murmur.

The cap bursts off, flying out of my hands and into the sink, and so does the bottle. It bounces around the edge of the sink before hitting the floor, sending pills flying everywhere.

My eyes jolt around at each one shooting across the floor. I look in the sink, and then the mirror, this time reacting physically at what looks back at me. Balling up my fist, I force it into the mirror, shattering it on contact, dressing my knuckles and fingers with different cuts. As the glass hits the floor, I ignore the chance of stepping on any of the shards, stomping out of the bathroom and further down the hall, right into my art studio.

I take the first easel in sight and pick it up, throwing it across the room, followed by picking up and throwing whatever is next in my path—breaking every item I can and making a mess of the once beautifully put together room. Sculptures, portraits— everything. Anything that reminds me of the disaster that is my brain. Each art piece is a reminder that my thoughts feel like World War III. All of it is some form of a memory of a traumatic event, and it’s inescapable.

“I’m not in control!”

I yell hysterically, kicking down some ceramic pots”

You did this to me!”

I belt, as if they could take

the place of my father, as if they can take my blows himself”

Fuck you!”

I shove down another sculpture, crumbling it on

the floor, then punching at a picture behind it”

I hate you! I hate you!”

I continue.

This is it.

This is me being open, and letting go. The part of me being painfully aware, just like I’d been told to. Life should be stunning, and give you hopes of potential. I can’t see it that way, and I wonder if I ever will.