Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 129027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
We’re going in. I’m not the one on the medicine, but I can somehow feel that this is going to be big. Momentous. And I feel so happy that he’s allowing me to do this with him.
He just keeps tracing shapes on my face as we lie there together, side by side.
“Can I give you a massage?” he asks.
“Um. Yeah. Yes.”
You never know how anyone’s session is going to go. I’m just here as what’s called a “sitter.” But this isn’t like the group of fellow Ph.D. students I came with before. I never thought of what something like this could be like with an intimate partner. When I first thought up the idea of doing this with Isaak, I tried to prepare for anything. I always knew this might trigger his PTSD in ways that might be unpredictable.
But really, as a sitter, you just try to be open to whatever the other person is feeling. So, if he wants to massage me? Yes, I’m open.
“Take off your shirt so I can feel your skin,” he says quietly.
I do what he asks and lay down on the bed, my face sideways on the pillow so I can still talk to him and check in.
“Your skin is so beautiful,” he whispers reverently, running his hand gently down the center of my back. “I was joking earlier when I said I’d see fairies, but you look like one with these neon glowing shapes all over your skin.”
His strong hands come to my shoulders just as a woman with a warm, operatic voice dances up and down the octaves on my phone.
“God, you feel like silk,” Isaak says, still in a reverent whisper. “The softest silk I’ve ever touched.”
Well, damn, if I knew this was gonna get me a spa session and sweet words, I would’ve dragged us up here weeks ago.
My body melts into the mattress as Isaak gives me a full back massage, marveling out loud to himself about how soft and silky and gorgeous and glowing I am. His fingers are strong but gentle at the same time.
When I had my experience, I felt like the person I unlocked during the session was my deepest, truest self.
Which I think means Isaak’s deepest, truest self is this gentle, loving being. Rather than seeing to his own pleasure, he’s connecting with me and seeing to mine.
I’ve never met a man like him. I’ve never met any person like him. Not everyone reacts like this to the mushrooms. Some of the guys from my program just started monologuing about every thought that came into their head, as if the medicine made them feel more ingenious than they already did every day (which was a lot).
But Isaak is, being so… Isaak.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He’s bent over the bed now, his forehead pressed to the top of my spine. “I’ve never touched anything so beautiful in my whole stupid ugly life.”
My chest squeezes in pain for him. And I remember, as nice as this feels, I’m here for him. I want healing for him more than I’ve ever wanted anything for myself.
The music shifts again to an ayurvedic chant.
It’s time. I’m his guide, so let’s make this count. Let’s take it in deeper.
“What about your life is ugly, my love?”
My eyes open wide. Those last words just popped out on accident.
“All of it. Before I met you.”
Okay, so he didn’t react to the my love part, and I need to get over myself. This is about him.
“I bet not all of it. But it’s okay to talk about the ugly parts here. Nothing has to be scary while you’re here with me in this place. Does it feel scary to talk about?”
He’s lying his forehead fully against my spine now, and he sort of rubs it around. “No, I guess not.” His hands are still on my shoulders.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Well, it was real ugly and scary when I was just a kid. I can see it in front of me if I close my eyes. I’m back there now.”
“What do you see, honey?” I hope I’m not pushing too far, too fast.
“I’m a little boy in a gym. All the other kids went home and I’m still there, waiting. I’m happy I’m alone ’cause I don’t like the other kids. They make fun of me ’cause my clothes ain’t clean. Not since Abuelita died a couple months ago. But the teacher isn’t happy because she’s been waiting too long. She keeps trying to call Mom and can’t get ahold of her.”
My chest squeezes all the breath out of me, it feels like. I want to ask a thousand questions. I know he grew up in group homes, but he’s talking about his mom. And again, I have to remind myself who this is for. This isn’t a fact-finding mission for me. What might help him?