Page 262 of Tell Me I'm Enough

Anger hits next. Not at her, at myself. Still, it doesn’t stop it from going in her direction. Which makes me hate myself even more.

“Because I’m a fucking addict, Simone,” I tell her with such self-deprecation in my voice. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she says in this pleading voice that makes me both want to pull her into a hug and also yell at her to get away from me—away from the destruction.

Instead, a sarcastic laugh makes its way out. “That’s not really how this works. I don’t get to just wave some magic wand and make the urges go away, make the pain go away, make all of the fucked up voices in my head go away.”

Her face falls. “I just…I want to understand…and help.”

“That’s the problem,” I say, pushing off the car and pacing a few steps away. “You think this is something you can even understand.”

“I’m trying—”

“I wake up, and it’s already there,” I say, cutting her off. “Before my feet even hit the floor, Simone…it’s there. You think I want that?”

The alcohol is making everything louder—my head, this conversation, the feelings.

She swallows. “No.”

“You think I enjoy feeling like this?” I gesture at myself. “Like I’m constantly five seconds away from either punching someone or falling apart?”

Her voice softens. “No.”

“Then stop looking at me like I’m choosing this.”

Silence.

And in that silence, I see it.

She isn’t looking at me like I’m choosing it. She’s looking at me like she’s scared for me.

My shoulders drop just slightly. “I can’t do sober right now,” I admit. “I tried.”

She moves closer. “Then let me help you.”

“That’s the thing,” I tell her, shaking my head. “You can’t.”

Her face cracks just a little. “I still want to try.”

“I don’t need your fixing.”

“You need support.”

“I need a different brain. What Idon’tneed is your sympathy. It’s not going to help me be any less of what I am.”

She looks hurt, like I’m hurting her by putting all the walls back up between us.

The thing is…there’s not really a wall there, not one high enough that she couldn’t step right back over if she wanted.

“Where did my friend, Mason, go?”

“He never existed, Simone. Don’t you get that? He wasn’t real. He was a mask.” I turn my head, not being able to look at her. “Thisis the real me,” I whisper. “And trust me, I’d understand if you wanted nothing to do with him.” I throw my head back and stare up at the sky. “Nobody does.”

She gives me this sad look, like it hurts her to see how broken I am.

“I’m not going anywhere. I—I just need you to get help,” she says, her voice breaking. “Please.”

I hate myself in this moment, hate that I’m hurting her, hate that I can’t stop doing it.