Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 4 April 2003

The Pain of Helplessness

I didn't sleep last night. The sunrise was spectacular, but I didn't really see it. It and everything else within my view was eclipsed by images of Blair, eight years old, lonely and afraid, living with a monster so evil, so vile .... I clench my fists and tremble with rage.

I've done a lot of that in the past eight hours.

I've been standing here for close to ten minutes now, chewing on my bottom lip, clenching my fists, and shaking. The kitchen is clean. The bathroom is clean. I've changed the linens on the bed and swept and dusted and done laundry and even cleaned out the refrigerator and scrubbed the oven. It's time to admit it -- there is nothing else here that I can use to channel my aggression.

I need to get out.

Sandburg's been sitting on the couch for the entire morning, oblivious to my frantic assault on dirt. He's grading papers, a task that always takes him a long time because he's one of the good ones -- a teacher who actually reads the whole paper and comments throughout. He's been at it for about four hours, and it looks to me like his pile hasn't gone down at all.

The past few months have been an odyssey of self-discovery for him. He's had to face a lot of demons, acknowledge a lot of really shitty things in his life. It's been a learning experience for me, as well. I've had to try to master the fine art of shoving aside my desire to kill, hurt, and maim, all things that would probably help me cope, in favor of listening and being patient and stepping back, while Blair figures out what helps him cope.

So far, that hasn't been me as the avenging angel. My one venture in that direction really terrified him -- he's told me he doesn't think he can get through this without me. It also makes me realize how scared I am of losing him. I don't want to be without him.

So I've been working really hard on the new and improved Jim Ellison, the feeling-friendly version. The one who talks about things. The one who listens -- which is actually easier than the talking part.

But right now, in the bright daylight that has followed the revelations of last night -- I can neither talk nor listen.

I've tried all morning to get control of this anger. Intellectually, I know what's going on. Sandburg's explained it to me often enough. Fear-based responses. I'm scared.

Scared I'm not strong enough to help him through this.

Scared I'm not going to be what he needs.

Scared I'm going to lose him, that these memories, these events that happened so long ago, are going to come between us in ways that we can't get past.

And Sandburg will tell you -- when I get scared, I get angry. Anger is the one emotion I'm comfortable with. I know what to do when I'm angry. I have more control over the anger than I ever do over the fear. Fear is something that happens to me. Anger is something I can use to make things happen. I'm in the driver's seat with anger.

And I'm angry now.

Angry that Don, and Terry, and Vince and who knows who else ever laid hands on him when he was so young, so small, so defenseless.

Angry that Naomi is a selfish, self-centered bitch who's always been more concerned with what she wants than what her son needs.

Angry that she fucking lost him for six months and four of those months were spent in hell with a man whom I only know as Frank. A man whose death has caused me great sadness because I've been cheated of the pleasure of helping him out of this world.

I'm so fucking angry I'm about to start hitting things.

"Sandburg," I growl, but he doesn't even move, so I swallow hard, soften my voice, and try again. "Chief?" That at least gets me a wave in my direction and a single finger held up -- not the middle one, thank goodness. I wait the requested minute, then say again, "Blair ..." My voice cracks, and I think that, more than anything, is what gets his attention.

He turns and looks at me in concern. "Jim? You okay?"

I nod, struggling to breathe, struggling to speak. "I need to get out of here," I say, my voice strangled. "Can we go over to the university -- maybe I can use the gym?"

He frowns and his eyes narrow. "What's wrong with Frankie's?" he asks.

Frankie's -- my regular gym. Right down the block and as familiar to me as my own back yard. But there's nowhere for Sandburg at Frankie's. No nice lounge area, no viewing window. Frankie's is an old-fashioned gym, not catering to the yuppie clientele that a true fitness center recruits. If we go to the university, he can work in the lounge and I can see him. I need to be able to see him.

I shrug. "I don't -- I can't ...." I can feel the heat as my face colors but I can't find the words to tell him I don't want to -- can't -- leave him alone right now.

His mind is working through all this as well, and it must have suddenly sunk in that I asked if 'we' could go over to the university because he's looking at me quizzically as he adds, "And why do I have to come?"

Sandburg and the gym do not normally mix. He jogs occasionally -- enough to be able to keep up with me if we have to pursue a suspect on foot -- but he's not big on the whole workout regime. For one thing, he just doesn't have time. He already watches what he eats, so from that standpoint he's probably healthier than I am. And as he's told me so often, working out is boring. Working his muscles does nothing to engage his mind and, therefore, has very little value to my passionately curious, passionately inquisitive, ever-learning, ever-seeking partner.

Though he has said he likes the results on me.

I shrug again. I've actually done pretty well with all this talking stuff throughout the last few months, but suddenly language seems to have deserted me. How do I tell him I'm at the breaking point? How do I justify dumping my issues on him? How am I supposed to explain that I'm afraid everything he said last night is going to come crashing down on him -- and I can't bear to think of him alone if that happens? How do I let him know that I can't be alone right now -- that I need to be near him, to see him and know that he's safe? I know it's ridiculous -- I know that what happened with Frank happened nearly twenty years ago, and the man is dead -- but I still can't bear the thought of not being able to look up and see him. I can't face not knowing he's all right.

Selfish? Absolutely. But I can't do anything about it. It's how I feel right now. And as Sandburg is always telling me -- feelings aren't wrong or right, they just are.

And mine are pretty much about to rage out of control if I don't get out of here soon.

I shake my head and scrub at the counter.

"Jim?" he says again, and I can hear the papers rustling, the couch creaking as he rises. It's only a moment and he's here beside me, his hand on my back.

At his touch, some of the tension in my body eases. Not all of it, by a long shot, but some of it begins to flow out of me as if he were channeling it. I have no idea how he does that. I take a deep breath and brace myself on the counter, both arms extended, my body leaning slightly forward as I struggle for control.

I still want to hit things.

Lots of things.

Lots of times.

"Please," I say softly, "come with me."

He slips beneath my arm and pops up in front of me, his face against my chest. His arms wrap around me, holding me tight, and I bury my face in his neck and return the embrace. He holds me quietly for a long moment, then asks in a slightly muffled voice, "What's going on, Jim?"

I can't let him go. All morning I've fought to keep from wrapping him in my arms and clinging to him, and now he's here, and I can't let him go. But I just shrug again, then breathe deeply against his neck, relishing the scent that is so uniquely his. "I need to work out," I say at last. "I need to, and," my voice drops as I make my final admission, "I don't want to go alone."

He pats my back as he speaks. "You mean you don't want me to be alone."

I shrug again. It's all the same to me.

He tilts his head up and kisses me, a gentle, comforting brush of his lips against mine, his tongue teasing against my lips for a moment before he pulls away. "I can work at the gym," he says, and I crush him to me, so grateful that he understands what I can't even put into words.

He lets me hold him tightly for a moment, then murmurs, "Easy, big guy, I'm gonna need to keep on breathing if we're going to the U."

I loosen my hold but don't let him go. This might just be the answer to my aggression issues. If I can just hold onto him like this, all the time, I can probably control the anger. When I'm holding him, that overwhelming urge to hit something isn't so overwhelming anymore.

But as nice as this is, even I know it can't last forever. He pulls out of my grasp with another pat on my arm and pads back to the sofa where he begins to gather up his papers and reload his backpack. "Let me get my stuff together," he says lightly, as if this were just another everyday occurrence -- Blair and Jim, off to the gym -- and not a first time event brought on by my inability to deal.

It amazes me that he knows me so well -- knows when to push me to talk, but also knows when to just let me be. This is definitely one of the times to let me be. I'm so tangled up in nerves and emotions, I don't think I could talk, even if I had the words.

I dart up the stairs and grab my gym bag -- it's packed and ready to go. All I need are a couple of water bottles. Back down the stairs, Blair is ready, and I pull the water out of the fridge and stow it in my bag, then hold a bottle up to my partner, offering. He nods and I toss it over, and we head out the door.

We're standing in the hallway, waiting for the elevator which is working today, and he says, "So, Jim -- think you're going to be able to tell me what this is about?"

I make a strangled noise, then drop my bag and begin to pace. It's all coming together in my head, I'm suddenly making connections. I need to workout -- I need to hit things for a while. I need to get rid of this anger and aggression, and normally I'd just go to the gym.

Frankie's gym.

Frankie.

A man named Frank molested Blair -- maybe more than molestation. He was a grown man and Blair was eight -- eight years old and helpless. And I'm helpless now. Completely helpless and it hurts so bad! I'm trying to block it out -- trying not to see him cowering in his bed, afraid, in pain, trying to escape the inescapable. I'm trying not to imagine this man -- this grown man who was big and strong and unavoidable -- trying not to imagine him touching Blair, holding him in a vise-like grip while he struggled, lowering his pajamas, his underpants ....

I let out a roar of outrage and turn, slamming my fist through the drywall behind me. I stand there, trembling with rage, aware that Sandburg is staring at me as if I've grown a third head and knowing that I've just made a complete and utter ass of myself.

"Jim, Jim, Jim," my partner says wearily, gazing forlornly at the wall, "we just got the last holes fixed."

I can't help it -- it makes me laugh. "Yeah, well, at least I know how to do it now," I say as I slowly pull my hand out of the hole I've just made.

Sandburg waits a moment, then asks with a raised eyebrow, "Just one?"

I nod sheepishly. "I'm done."

He takes my hand and scans the skinned knuckles, kisses them softly and pronounces, "You'll live," as the elevator arrives. We board and he adds, "You've really got to find another way to channel your aggression."

I snort and lean over to kiss him. "I told you I needed to go work out."

Once Sandburg is settled in the lounge -- I make sure he's by the viewing window, and I don't think he notices I'm putting him where I can see him -- I change quickly. I don't want him out of my sight for any longer than is absolutely necessary.

I put on gym shorts and an old T-shirt, faded and torn, with the sleeves and collar ripped off. These are standard gym clothes at Frankie's -- the name makes me wince, and I know I'm going to have to find another place to work out -- but my attire definitely doesn't fit in with the trendy fashion clothes of the college set that peoples this fitness center. I pull on a pair of battered Nikes and do a couple of deep knee bends. I can feel eyes on me, and I look around, then smile when I realize it's Blair who's watching me. I'm forty, and I confess, it gives me a thrill to know that looking at my body can turn my young lover on. I smile through the window, and he flushes but smiles back, then drops his head and goes back to his grading.

Ready at last, I walk over to the bench press and set the pin at 220. Straddling the bench, I sit, then lay back. I reach up and grab the bars, then breathe in deeply, and push. It's a rhythmic motion, up and down, lift and release, push and relax. As my arms work steadily, the tension in my back and shoulders begins to ease. A quick 30 reps and I can feel the sweat as it trickles down my face and chest. I stop, swipe at my face with the hem of the T-shirt, then shift the pin down to 200.

Sandburg finds this boring, but I find it -- comforting. So much of my life is out of control. And not just my senses, either. Blair's done wonders with giving me the illusion that I can control my senses, but I know it's just an illusion. I'm terribly vulnerable to the most unassuming things, and that's frightening to me. It makes me long for the things I can control. Little things like keeping the loft clean and knowing where things are. Bigger things like taking control of my body -- knowing that the effort I put into keeping myself fit has the payoff of making me more prepared for the things I face on my job. And the really big thing -- the one I long to control and know I can't -- keeping my partner safe.

Another 30 reps and I'm sweating profusely. My muscles are beginning to burn, and I welcome the pain. It's better than the pain of helplessness. I move the pin again, this time to 180, and begin the steady up and down press. I can only push out another 15 reps before I have to stop, my arms hanging off the bench as I suck in air greedily.

I stand and glance at the window. Sandburg is still there, head down, but I can see his lips move as he talks to himself. I take a moment and listen. "No, no, no," he mumbles, "were you completely asleep in class, or am I just that bad a teacher?" The red pencil begins to scratch on the paper, and I smile as I move over to the leg press.

This time I start with the weights at 300. I lean back on the angled bench, fitting my feet into the rests and begin to push.

Breathe, push, release. Breathe, push, release.

I go through 30 reps, then rise fluidly and step off. It doesn't take long to lower the weight to 280, and then I do 30 more. My calves are just beginning to burn -- a sweet and welcome pain -- and the sweat is rolling down my back and chest as I reset the weights to 260, settle again, and push out 30 more. Rising one last time, I set the weights down another 20 pounds and force out a last 15 before collapsing fully against the bench. I lay there a moment, my body trembling, then rise and walk shakily to the water fountain.

A few sips later, I cross to the area where the free weights are stored and begin a series of curls, using the dumbbells. Starting with 100 pounds, I hammer out 20 reps, switch to 80s and do another 20, then pick up the 60s and do a final 20. My muscles on fire, I put the dumbbells down and walk back into the main room. Shedding my shirt, I climb up on the treadmill and set it for three 7-minute miles. Beginning at a trot, the pace gradually picks up until I'm running at a good clip, having to work to keep up.

I'm trying not to think, longing for the endorphin high that should have hit by now. My mind is filled with images, like a television that won't be turned off. I can see all the children, the battered and abused and neglected children, that I've dealt with in my career, and superimposed on them all is the image of my partner. I can see him so clearly.

Four years old. Chubby with baby fat. Small for his age. Face framed with wild curls that won't be tamed. Fear on his face as he hides in a closet and waits for the yelling to stop. Tears on his cheeks, confusion in his innocent eyes as he tries to understand what he did that has earned him another beating with a belt.

I'm running, running, running -- and I can't get away.

Seven years old. Slender now, almost too thin. The baby fat is gone, but he's still small for his age, and his hair still curls wildly around his pinched and worried face. He's got glasses, and they're too big for him, bought that way so that they would last. He gets teased a lot. And Vince -- or was it Terry? Yeah, Terry. Blair wanders into the living room, book in hand, and offers a comment on something he's read. Something interesting to his seven-year-old mind. "Hey, Mom, did you know ...." Or maybe he asks a question. "Why do ...?" And Terry, Terry who towers over Blair, who is not just inches taller, but feet taller, Terry just slaps him with the back of his hand and doesn't even bother to look at the damage he's done. Blair flies into the wall, his lip is split, his cheek is cut, his nose is bleeding. None of that matters to him though, because his glasses are broken, and his mom told him if he broke them, they weren't getting another pair. He's crying as he stumbles back to his room, but not from the pain in his face -- he's crying because he won't be able to see the board in school, and how will he ever learn anything?

And I'm still running. Running as fast and as hard as I can, and I can't get away.

He's eight. He doesn't know where his mother is -- doesn't know if he'll ever see her again. Doesn't know how to contact her or if she'd even come for him if he could call her. He's far too thin, with clothes that hang off his still-small body. He's begun to dress in layers. Even in the Texas heat, he wears a T-shirt and several other shirts over it. It keeps the people at school from asking why he's so thin -- doesn't he get enough to eat? And actually, he does. Beverly always feeds him -- he just can't keep it down. He eats because he doesn't want her mad at him, doesn't want her to tell Frank, but then he throws up after. He can't remember the last time he didn't get sick when he ate. And the layers he wears -- sometimes, when Frank is really drunk, he can't get all the clothes off and he gives up. When that happens, Blair wears the same shirt for days -- it's become his lucky shirt.

But there aren't any layers allowed in bed. He wears the pajamas he's given, and he no longer fights. The fight has been worn out of him. Now he just prays for it to be fast, to be over quickly, and that this time he won't bleed. Please, don't let me bleed this time. What kind of a prayer is that for an eight-year-old?

I can't run hard enough or fast enough to get away from it, and I realize with a start that I'm crying. Tears stream down my face and I leap off the treadmill early, grabbing up my T-shirt and burying my face in it.

I look up and see Sandburg staring at me. He's standing at the window now, both hands on the glass, and he's looking at me with such worry, such concern. I can't bear his concern right now.

Any good that has come from putting myself through such a strenuous workout is being erased by the image of Blair in a small, twin bed, Frank on top of him. For some reason, all I can see are bruises on his arms -- bruises in the shape of a man's hands and fingers, hands and fingers that gripped those small, eight-year-old arms so tightly they left marks. Hands that held that child in place, held him down, held him ....

I look around frantically. I need to hit something. Sighing in relief, I realize that this fitness center has one. Over in the corner, behind a partition that provides a three-sided room -- what I need. I move unsteadily to the heavy bag, dropping my shirt to the floor by my feet and begin to pound away. It's a useless attack, it doesn't change anything. It still happened. Don and Terry and Frank and Vince and all the others have already done their damage, caused their pain, and nothing I do can change that.

Naomi pretended not to know then, and she's still pretending now, because it's easier that way.

And Beverly? She's still a loose end. Beverly, who stood by and watched and said, "Better you than me, kid." Beverly is still out there.

I pound relentlessly at the bag. Each blow reverberates up my arms, through my shoulders, down my chest and back. I'm pounding for all the children, all the babies who are left in garbage cans and toilet stalls and thrown in dumpsters. All the innocent and trusting children who are abused by the perverted. I slam the bag harder and harder, trying to push back all the images. I suddenly see Blair, a baby this time, still in a crib. Only it's not a crib, because Naomi wouldn't have a crib. He's in a dresser drawer -- a tiny little scrap of humanity laying in a soiled diaper and screaming for a mother who's not even there. A mother who's left him alone because she's only going to be gone a minute, but she met a man. And now he cries and lays in his waste, and no one answers him. His stomach hurts from hunger, his bottom is chafed and raw. He has no way to communicate except to cry, so he cries for hours until finally, exhausted, he falls asleep.

My eyes are filled with unaccustomed tears again, my breath catches in my chest. I am helpless -- the thought crashes across my mind with startling clarity. I can do nothing to prevent what has already happened. The pain is overwhelming as the tears slide down my cheeks. My arms burn, my hands are battered and bloody. My reserves are almost gone. I catch the bag, clutch it to my chest, and lift my head to the ceiling. "I CAN'T DO ANYTHING!" I roar. "I'M HELPLESS!"

I lower my head, bury it against the bag.

There's a hand on my back, a voice in my ear. "Jim," he says softly, tugging at my arm, "let go."

"I'm helpless," I whimper, collapsing into his arms, letting him hold me, letting him guide me to the floor. We land by the wall, and he scoots backward, half-pulling, half-dragging me with him until I'm curled against his side, my back against the wall.

"It's as hard for you as it is for me, isn't it?" he says through tears of his own, and I shake my head violently.

"Never! Nothing I feel ... what happened to you ... what Don did ... what Frank ...." Words desert me. I bury my head against him, letting him be strong -- needing him to be strong.

"It's all right," he says, that patented Sandburg serenity amazing me again. "It hurts you, too, and that's okay. You're allowed to feel pain over this."

"I'm not ... it wasn't me ..." I stammer in protest, so afraid that my feelings may in some way invalidate or eclipse his own.

"It's all right, Jim," he says again. "You can hurt, you can be in pain because of this. Feelings aren't right or wrong, they just are."

"But you ...."

"Your feelings don't change mine, Jim. I still carry my own pain, deal with my own emotions."

"I want to be strong for you," I whisper, appalled that I am still crying.

"You have been. You are. But you still hurt, don't you?"

I nod.

"Then let me be strong for you. Just for a little while. You've carried me for months, Jim. It's okay to let go now." He cuddles me close. "I'm here."

"How can you be so strong?" I ask, ashamed of my own weakness, my inability to control this emotional onslaught.

"What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger," he says softly. "You, of all people, know that."

"I can't do anything," I wail, oblivious to where we are, to who may be listening. A strangled sob steals my voice again, and I whimper, "I'm helpless -- useless."

"You're here for me," Blair says. "You've been my rock, Jim. The only person who's ever been there for me all the time, the only person who didn't leave."

"I love you," I say, clutching him to me as if I'll never let him go. "I love you."

"I've never had anyone hurt for me before," he murmurs in my ear. "I've never had anyone grieve for me."

I'm still for a moment, his words shaking me. Is that what I'm doing? Is that what this is? Grief? I roll the idea around in my mind for a moment, tasting it, and realize that's exactly what this is. I'm grieving.

I'm grieving for the baby who'd been left alone for hours at a time.

Grieving for the little boy who'd hidden in the closet in fear -- who'd been brutally beaten with a belt.

Grieving for the trust that was betrayed, the curiosity that was squelched when questions were answered with the back of a hand.

Grieving for innocence lost when touch became something to be feared, something filled with pain and loathing, instead of something welcome and loving.

"Let it go, Jim," he whispers again, his hand stroking my hair as he pulls me down so my head rests in his lap. "Let me be strong -- I need to be strong."

I nod imperceptibly, and sniffle, the tears finally beginning to slow. I let myself fall, and trust that he will catch me. I curl into him, resting against him, his hand in my hair, and let him comfort me.

I'm remembering what Simon said last night, that I needed to stay close because Sandburg was going to fall apart today.

Guess what, Simon?

You were right and you were wrong.

Someone fell apart, but it wasn't Sandburg.

I close my eyes and inch closer to my partner. If I could crawl into his lap, I would. As it is, I make do with wrapping one arm around his back and clutching his leg with the other.

He's murmuring to me, almost singing in a chant-like way. The words mean nothing, it's the feelings that matter -- caring, understanding, warmth, safety, acceptance, love.

I lie on the floor, enfolded in his arms, tears on my face, and while the thought of what I must look like flickers through my mind, I shove it ruthlessly aside.

All that matters is that I need him, and he's here.

He needs to be strong, and I let him.

If that's not love, what is?