After Emerson left the studio, I ran up to my apartment, locking myself in. I kicked off my shoes and paced. I sat down, I stood up, I walked around more. I was shaking. My heart was racing. My hands were tingling. My whole body felt tense, and I was breathing quickly. Was I having a heart attack? No, not a heart attack. Calm down. I'm not dying. What if I am? What if I'm about to go unconscious and no one will find me for days? I'm losing my mind. Why is my body doing this?
My head felt like white noise, a vibrating numbness crawling around my scalp. Was I going to pass out? I am dying. No, just sit down. I sat down on my couch, holding my head in my hands. I was groaning. I groaned louder. Shame, shame, shame. I clenched my head, pulling on my hair. I'm going to die. I deserve to die.
I stood up again, tearing my shirt off. It was so hot. I was sweating but shaking. I'm dying but it's what is best. That's what Father Jamison said all those years ago, in his office, when he'd slap my hands with the yardstick. If I didn't kill myself then he was just going to kill me. Why was he like that? He used to be kind. He would babysit us all as children when Dad was too inebriated and Mom was working the second shift. He let us play fun board games. He gave us soda. He led us into the playroom in his basement, except for Delphine, who was always asleep upstairs.
Don't think about him. Don't think about him. Don't think about him.
I was seven when we first started going to Father Jamison's. Mom had been so appreciative of his generosity. She even cried she was so relieved. She apologized over and over, but Father Jamison just comforted her and told her he would take care of us. For the first month, it was beyond fun. He had a Nintendo 65. He had PG-13 movies. He had candy and soda we couldn't afford. We got to have sleepovers when Mom had to stay late at work. The sleeping bags were softer than our own beds. Claude was twelve. Axelle was nine. Clovis was five. Delphine was just about to turn four. She got to sleep upstairs in the comfy bed, since she was the baby of the family and wasn't even in school yet.
It was a month or two later when Father Jamison started "hanging out" with us one on one. At first, it wasn't weird. He just wanted to talk. It felt like he was trying to see if we needed help or a shoulder to cry on. It's hard having Daddy drink too much, isn't it? You wish Mommy didn't work as much, right? Then he'd ask us about school, if we liked our teachers, what our favorite subjects were, if we got bullied, if we had a crush on anyone. They bully you for your hand-me-down clothes? Well, here wear this. But it wasn't a new uniform from the Catholic school. It was a swimsuit or a robe or just a pair of underwear.
When he took pictures of us, it was weird but he was Father Jamison - what was the harm? I used to think he designed the clothes himself and wanted us to pose for him to sell the clothing. I'm sure he sold the photos somehow. Eventually, all of us except for Delphine would go downstairs and wear the clothing he gave us. He'd tell us how to pose. One day, he made the four of us take our clothes off. We kept our eyes on the ground the whole time. The camera flashes were blinding.
Claude turned thirteen shortly after that night. We begged and begged Mom to let us stay home because he was old enough to watch us. He was, but not for Delphine. Del was too young to be taken care of by a fresh teenager. So, Delphine stayed at Father Jamison's. He always let her sleep. He didn't take pictures of her, so it was fine, right? Delphine, do you like staying at Father Jamison's? Yes! He's the bestest.
Father Jamison got wind that we begged Mom to not let us stay at his place. He brought us into his office and said he would kill us if we ever said a word about what happened. He said we were ungrateful for his generosity. So that is when the abuse started. Blind eyes were turned. Public humiliation was the norm. Bruises varied in size and color. Regardless, Delphine never had an issue with Father Jamison. Even when she started school, she got to go to his office whenever she wanted. She loved him like he was her own father.
When I was eleven, I went to confession. I confessed I felt like I liked boys the way I should like girls. I didn't think anything of it until I was called to Father Jamison's office the next day. That's when the torment would start. He'd say I was going to Hell, that I had to be ashamed of myself, that I was disgusting, a faggot needing burned at the stake. It was constant. It's what led me to try and kill myself two years later.
After my suicide attempt, and after Del had just turned ten, she asked me if Father Jamison was why I tried to end it all. I said yes, how did you know? What has he done to you? She said he never did anything to her, but I wasn't certain. She was quieter and she didn't talk about him as much, but she still visited his office often. As time went on, though, and I started to try and not be suicidal, her smile faded more and more. We didn't go to the Catholic school anymore after my suicide attempt, but Delphine still visited Father Jamison.
One day, I found her sobbing in the alleyway after school. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. She kept saying this over and over. I asked her what was wrong over and over. I'm pregnant, she had said. You're only twelve. How? She wouldn't tell me how, but I knew it was Father Jamison. He'd take pictures of little kids from the school as much as he wanted, but for Delphine, she was his favorite. I'll help you. I had heard rumors about a location that terminated pregnancies in a basement, so I took Delphine there. We knew it was risky. Delphine was scared the entire time, so they let me go in with her. She cried in pain and agony. It was the saddest site I had ever witnessed. This little girl, a mass of cells, forced into her, dangerously yanked out of her. There was so much blood. I told her to never visit Father Jamison again, but she still denied it was him and that he hurt her. She shook as she said this. I'm sure she was scared of him more than anything. Brainwashing. He probably threw threats at her about killing her or her family. It's what he did.
I followed her one day, though, when she went to his house. I heard yelling through the window to the basement. You whore! You're going to Hell! I had kicked in the basement window and jumped down there. He hit me. He hit Delphine, who was sobbing. He said we were monsters who were going to burn and burn and burn in Hell. I took her out of there, telling her again to never go see him, that he was a terrible man, that we had to go to the police. She refused. She stopped going to his place, but this is when she shut down. I knew his words rang in her head. She was a devout Christian. She genuinely believed she was going to hell. In Catholic school, they taught us that people who kill themselves go to Hell. So, she knew it wouldn't make a difference how she died. She killed herself only three weeks after that night.
When I look at my siblings, I can't help but think about that night in his basement, when our eyes stared on the ground against camera flashes. We should have told someone, but we were children. He was an adult. You had to respect adults. Plus, we were so scared. He would kill us, after all. My siblings didn't know the extent of what happened to Delphine, but they also knew Father Jamison was to blame. He was a terrible man. We should have said something, but Father Jamison died when I was a freshman in college from a heart attack. They never found the photographs it seemed. No one ever knew, except for the faces in those photos.
He was the root of all of my problems. But why? He never touched me the way he touched Delphine. Still, he violated and tormented all of us. As much as I wanted to suppress the memory of him, his words rang in my ear forever. I don't believe in Hell, but the idea that he could be engulfed in flames made me want to believe. Kill yourself. You need to die. Eventually, Richard's words through the phone echoed Father Jamison's. I couldn't escape the torture he put me through. Maybe it would be better to die to escape my misery. No, I couldn't break Mom's heart again. My friends would be devastated. Emerson...he would blame himself forever. I couldn't do that to him - to any of them. Still, I hated feeling this way. That man ruined my life. The traumas he instilled in us in our youth followed us clear into adulthood.
After my panic attack subsided, I laid down on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I wanted to drink an entire bottle of whiskey. I wanted to smoke some pot. I want to down my entire bottle of antidepressants, not to kill myself but for the chance the pain and misery could go away. I hadn't felt this miserable since I was a little boy and I was constantly haunted by the voice of Father Jamison. I could barely look at my siblings because of him. I felt shame every time I had sex because of him. I never believed I deserved anything good in my life because of him. I didn't deserve to be in love or to be loved, because of him.
I trapped myself in my apartment for the weekend, barely getting out of bed, not showering, not working out. I binge-ate whatever was in the fridge, getting sick later. It's as though all of the progress I had done was ruined and gone. What was the point? I was never going to be genuinely happy. I was never going to have any type of stable relationship. I was going to burn in Hell anyway.
Em texted me Sunday night. Faye, I'm worried about you. I haven't heard from you yet. Please let me know if you need anything. You know I'm here for you.
I wanted Em to love me. I loved him. I was so, so in love with him, but I didn't deserve him. He deserved someone who could love him in all the right ways. I couldn't do that. Could I? Staying in a depressed, suicidal daze, binge-eating and ignoring my hygiene wasn't going to get me close to being worthy of him. He'd hate to see me like this. He'd hate to see me go. His heart would break, and I couldn't do that. I had to try, for him. I had to try and be better, be happier, and be able to love him without feeling ashamed and self-destructive.
Aristotle had a theory about what the purpose of humankind is. Our purpose was to fulfill the means of the soul. How does one do this? Through happiness. He said happiness is the point of living. Even though happiness is so hard, it gives life meaning. He said you can be happy by being virtuous, by being a good person, by loving. I had to try. I had to try to love myself so I could love others. I had to be a good person. Patient, brave, kind. I just had to. Even if it wasn't going to be perfect, I had to try. I wanted to love and be loved. Love was worth trying for.