American Outlaw Part 42

"Well," I said. "I guess . . . my marriage ended. I'd kind of like to figure out if I can save it."

"All right," she said. "Tell me about it."

"Oh, man," I said. I paused for a while, letting the silence fill the room. "I just . . . don't know if I'm ready to go into all of that. It's been pretty painful."

"Is it recent?"

"Real recent," I admitted.

"Do you need some time to settle in here, first?"

"Yeah, I think so," I said. "I mean, I don't want to be a d.i.c.k. I mean . . . sorry." I blushed.

"That's okay. You can say whatever you want to here, Jesse. Everything's allowed."

"Well," I said, haltingly. "I just . . . I've never done anything like this before. Like, talk about my feelings. Any of that. I'm more of a take-action type of person. I never saw the point in therapy, to be honest."

"You might be surprised what happens when you open up," Dr. Thomas said patiently. "Tell you what, let's just meet again, tomorrow, and go from there-how does that sound?"

"Good," I said gratefully. "Thanks. I'll do better next time. I promise."

"It's all at your speed," Dr. Thomas said. "There's no need to rush it."

I wandered around the grounds, outside of the building, killing time before dinner. A guy with a receding hairline, a few years younger than me, approached me carefully.

"Hey, man," he said. "How are you doing? I'm Tim."

"What's up, Tim. I'm Jesse."

"Dude! I figured that was you. You're the guy from Monster Garage. Monster Garage."

"Yup," I said.

"Well, welcome. This is a pretty cool place."

"What are you here for?" I asked.

"Oh, depression, you know, anxiety . . . my whole life being kind of f.u.c.ked up . . . that kind of thing." He laughed. "It's not so bad, I guess. I swear, some days, I actually feel like I'm getting better. What about you?"

"What do you mean?" I said.

"I just mean . . . why are you here?" he said. "That is, if you want to talk about it. No pressure."

"You mean, you don't know?" I said.

"How would I know?" Tim asked, confused.

"I thought you knew who I was."

"I do," he said. "You're that Monster Garage Monster Garage guy. But that's all I got, man." He grinned. "Look, we'll talk about it in group. I just wanted to say what's up and welcome you." guy. But that's all I got, man." He grinned. "Look, we'll talk about it in group. I just wanted to say what's up and welcome you."

"Well, thank you, Tim," I said, after a second. "I appreciate it. See you around."

We separated, and I continued to wander around on the grounds, in the shadow of the mountains.

Of course, I thought. I thought. Most everyone's been here longer than me; they weren't on the outside when the story broke. Most everyone's been here longer than me; they weren't on the outside when the story broke.

There were no newspapers, magazines, TV, or Internet at Sierra Tucson. I realized, with incredible relief, that this place really was an escape for me. No one knew about me and Sandy. And, I decided, I was going to keep it that way.

That evening, all of the residents gathered together after dinner for a large group meeting, about two hundred people in all. It felt more laid-back than the smaller group session, almost like a social gathering, and the room buzzed with discussion as a few patients halfheartedly tried to read the minutes from previous meetings, amid the conversations going on in every corner of the room. I kept mostly to myself, but couldn't help observe the friends.h.i.+p and camaraderie evident in the room. halfheartedly tried to read the minutes from previous meetings, amid the conversations going on in every corner of the room. I kept mostly to myself, but couldn't help observe the friends.h.i.+p and camaraderie evident in the room.

The next morning, we had another group session.

"This is pretty embarra.s.sing for me to admit," said one young man. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties. "I . . . hadn't left my apartment more than a handful of times in the past few years."

"Really?" I asked. It just slipped out. This was a normal-looking kid. I couldn't imagine what could have kept him so alone.

"Yeah," he said, looking at the ground. "Pretty f.u.c.king loony-sounding, I know . . ."

Ben, the therapist in charge of the group, talked with the young man for a few minutes, teasing out the details of his story: he had been enrolled in the armed forces, then had been discharged for an anxiety disorder. I listened to him with real sympathy.

"Anyone else? Who'd like to share?"

Slowly, I raised my hand.

"Hey," I said. "I'm Jesse. I just came in yesterday, so I'm sort of new to this. But sitting here listening to you guys, I'm really impressed by how honest and open everyone is. I wanted to try to open up a little bit."

"That's great, Jesse. What's on your mind?"

"Well, I think . . . I came from a pretty violent family. That's my . . . I think that's my issue."

"Is there anything in particular that stands out to you?"

"Man." I laughed. "There's so much to choose from." The other residents laughed, and I felt a bit more comfortable talking.

"One of my first memories," I continued, "is of this girl with freckles and red hair. She used to live around the corner from me when I was a kid."

"What do you remember?" Ben asked.

"She was a Jehovah's Witness," I said, laughing. "But I don't know why I remember know why I remember that. that. Anyway, I always used to ride my bicycle by her house. One day, she was lying down on the sidewalk, with her little skirt on, just staring up at the sky without blinking, like she was dead. And I remember it made me cry. I was like four or five years old." Anyway, I always used to ride my bicycle by her house. One day, she was lying down on the sidewalk, with her little skirt on, just staring up at the sky without blinking, like she was dead. And I remember it made me cry. I was like four or five years old."

"Go on," Ben encouraged me.

"So I went and told my dad," I said. "He was in the backyard, refinis.h.i.+ng some furniture, and I went up to him, crying, all, 'Dad, Laurie's lying on the sidewalk! I can't ride my bike!' And my dad, he looked up and yelled, 'Well, then f.u.c.kin' run her over!' Well now I know he was kidding, but I was just a kid so I did what he said. I went and got my bike and ran her over with it. I remember my front wheel hitting her square in the ribs, and I f.u.c.ked her up really bad."

I looked at the group, a little apprehensively. "He was a pretty gnarly dad," I added. "I have all kinds of stories."

"How did it make you feel to grow up in that kind of household?"

"Not too good," I said, remembering. It felt kind of odd to be talking about my family; I had only ever done it with a very few people in my life. Sandy and Karla, that was about it. But for some reason, this felt right. "My folks split when I was about six. I didn't see my mom much when I was growing up. I just had a whole bunch of stepmoms-and my dad."

"It sounds like you have a lot of unresolved feelings toward your father, does that sound right?"

"No, I think they're pretty much resolved." I laughed, kind of bitterly. "He hit me. He doesn't know his grandkids, and I haven't spoken to him in about ten years. That's how I feel."

Soon we moved on to other residents, but a curious feeling of release and tentative happiness stayed with me for the rest of the hour. It felt like I'd dislodged something.

After the meeting broke up, I kind of mingled around the room a little bit, feeling more open than I had been previously. Meeting the eyes of the other people in the room, part of me wondered if they'd judge me, now that they knew I'd grown up in a weird, violent type of life. But oddly enough, no one seemed to bat an eyelash. judge me, now that they knew I'd grown up in a weird, violent type of life. But oddly enough, no one seemed to bat an eyelash.

They're all dealing with their own s.h.i.+t, I realized. I realized. I have problems, but so do they. I have problems, but so do they.

"How are things developing for you, Jesse?" Dr. Thomas asked, during our private session later that day.

"Not that bad," I said. "I'm starting to feel a little bit more at home here, I think."

"And what do you think of the group meetings?"

"I was a little resistant at first," I admitted. "But today, I kind of opened up and talked."

"How'd that feel?"

"Not too bad. In fact, it was sort of amazing." I laughed. "So that's what therapy is, huh? You unload all your baggage, get it out into the air?"

"I think that's probably part of it," Dr. Thomas said, smiling. "Actually, it's a big part. Our theory is that it's helpful for you to tell your story. Your job is to put it all together into some kind of narrative that makes sense to you and the people around you."

I nodded, absorbing that. "I talked about my dad today," I said, after a moment.

"What'd you get into?"

"Oh, I just talked about what a loser he was."

"Tell me about him."

"Oh, h.e.l.l," I said, exhaling. "He was a beatnik, I think. But not the fun kind. My dad bought unclaimed storage units at auction and then tried to sell all the s.h.i.+t inside them. He got his kicks f.u.c.king people over for a living. That's my dad."

My therapist laughed gently. "Well, was there anything that you liked about him?"

"Well, sure, I guess," I said, considering. "He knew how to work hard. He taught me that, at least. My function on this planet was to be a worker for his business. If he had a bunch of trucks to load, he had no problem with keeping me out of school. I don't care if it was a test day or anything: I was going with him to work." had no problem with keeping me out of school. I don't care if it was a test day or anything: I was going with him to work."

"Did you ever feel taken advantage of?" Dr. Thomas asked.

"I think I was too young to really know how it worked," I said, after considering for a second. "I wanted his approval, and work was the way to get it. So I got real good at it. After a few years, it even got to the point where my dad would sit on his a.s.s in the truck and watch me do all the work, and I was thrilled. Like, 'Dad! Check me out! I did it!'"

"And did you get his approval, then?"

"Sometimes," I said. "But there was always more work to do. I didn't care. I was a strong kid. I was like six feet tall by the time I was thirteen. Sometimes I worked twenty hours in a weekend for him."

"It sounds to me," Dr. Thomas said, "like you had to grow up pretty quickly."

I sat there, looking at her, thinking, yes, I guess I had. yes, I guess I had.

As those first days pa.s.sed, I settled into a routine. Group in the morning, private sessions in the afternoon, then the large communal meeting after dinner. In between, there was strange hippie bulls.h.i.+t I never thought I'd do in my entire life, like yoga and meditation. But I tried everything, and the peace that I'd felt at moments here and there over my first days began to come a little more often.

I was safe here. That was the big realization for me in the first week: once I understood that I was actually freed from the media vultures outside, who had pecked at me until I thought I'd go crazy, the relief was impossibly sweet. Essentially, I felt like I was among people who, for once, actually sympathized with me. The other residents were ordinary folks who had gone through some pretty hard problems, and they had undertaken the same challenging unwinding process that I had. In a way, we were all in this together.

"Yo, Jesse," Tim said, nodding at me. "What's up, man?"

I smiled at him. "Hey, Tim, what's happening."

He shrugged. "Just another day in paradise. You?"

"Same here," I replied.

It wasn't like everyone was my best friend right away. But somehow, it totally gave me strength to know that other people were fighting some sort of battle to make themselves better, too.

It was probably on the fourth or fifth day that I decided I was going to work as hard at Sierra Tucson as I'd worked at everything else in my life: football, bodyguarding, building my own business. I would put in the hours and do whatever they asked me to. Some of the stuff was kind of corny, no doubt about it: they had this small outdoor walking maze that you were encouraged to wander around in-I guess the idea was you could sort out your feelings alone, after a hard day of talking trauma or something. But I'll be d.a.m.ned if wandering around that little maze didn't hold some answers for me. Some afternoons, watching my feet as I stumbled across the small stones, I remembered things there I'd been trying to forget for thirty years.

My mom never remarried. She had only one boyfriend after my dad left.

I pivoted, trying to keep my balance in the narrow pathways of the circular maze.

He was a typical 1970s East L.A. Cholo . . . drank a lot . . . worked as a truck driver . . . I remember seeing him drunk and yelling at my mom, threatening to kick the s.h.i.+t out of her.

I turned again, putting one foot directly in front of the other, treading as slowly and as deliberately as possible.

Once, I told him to leave my mom alone and he directed his alcohol-fueled rage toward me . . . "What's that?" he yelled. "You got something to say to me? Huh, you f.u.c.kin' crybaby?" I think I was about eight years old . . .

It was hard stuff, all of it. And I had always been unwilling to dwell for too long on it. I guess it hurt too bad. I'd bury myself in my work, or in getting f.u.c.ked up, or wrenching on big, imposing machines. But all that had done was put me where I was now. The only way out was through the hard memories. dwell for too long on it. I guess it hurt too bad. I'd bury myself in my work, or in getting f.u.c.ked up, or wrenching on big, imposing machines. But all that had done was put me where I was now. The only way out was through the hard memories.

Joanna, my stepmom, came to pick me up from football practice in sixth grade, and I was late getting out of the locker room . . . "Where were you?" she snapped. I didn't say anything.

"I SAID, where were were you?" you?"

I didn't respond.

"Did you hear me??" She backhanded me, and her fake nail caught on my mouth and cut my lip and then I was bleeding onto my s.h.i.+rt . . .

The memory hit me full force. I swayed for a second, then continued forward, breathing with each footfall, just looking at the ground, letting my body lead me.

So I punched her in the side of the head. She shut right up. It was the worst feeling I'd ever had.

Slowly, I felt something expanding inside of me. Just having the courage to investigate the way I'd grown up gave me this sense of maturing, of advancing past this limit I'd always set on myself. Instead of constantly pretending that I'd grown up normally, just like everyone else, now I was allowing for the possibility that I'd been hurt. And pretty bad.

"I came here thinking that if I followed the directions, and did what you guys told me to do, I'd maybe be given a second chance with Sandy," I told Dr. Thomas. "But lately I've been thinking, maybe that's not the point."

Dr. Thomas smiled at me. "So tell me, what's the point, Jesse?"