“No. . . I just never had a girlfriend before you. I’m kind of nervous.”
I squinted my forehead.
“You look surprised.”
“I am. I thought you’d have an extensive dating history given how smart and gorgeous you are.”
He looked at me with those vivid blue eyes. “I don’t trust others easily. I usually don’t get too close to people.”
“You trust me?” I gently pulled off his glasses and placed them on the bedside stand. His eyes became radiant.
“I trust you, Kristen.”
“We’ll go slow Marty. We’ll take our time.” I pulled one dress strap off my shoulder. I took his hand and placed it on my breast, releasing a slow breath as I felt the warmth radiating from his skin.
His cheeks flushed. It was so adorable to see him this way. “Kristen, I—I think I . . .”
“What is it?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. You’re just so wonderful. The most amazing person I’ve ever met.”
I smiled. “Even more amazing than Gary Becker?”
“A hundred times more amazing.”
I tugged his brown hair and brought his lips down to mine. We made love that night for the first time.
***
Marty punched a fist-sized hole in the drywall of his apartment.
I was frightened. I’d seen small glimpses of his temper over the past few weeks—small outbursts over seemingly trivial things other people did—but I wasn’t too concerned. I attributed it to stress. He was a TA and had a heavy course load after all. But his reactions had never gone this far.
“Marty, calm down. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. How could he do that? Doesn’t he have a conscience?”
“You’re overreacting. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t see you coming so he accidentally opened the door and hit you in the face.”
He sighed and rubbed his nose, which was beginning to swell up. He sat down on the brown suede couch next to me with his head in his hands.
“Why do you get so upset?” I asked. “Have you been stressed lately?” I began stroking his back gently. It was as much to soothe him as it was to soothe myself. I was still shaken up by that punch.
“No, I’m fine,” he grumbled.
“Talk to me, Marty. You’re not telling me something.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, preferring to rub his temples to calm himself. “I’ve never told anybody about this . . . sometimes I just get really angry. My mom was a bit harsh on me when I was growing up.”
“What happened?”
He let out another long sigh. I could tell he was debating whether to say what was on his mind or not. “She was a drug addict.” The words lingered in the air for a moment. “Even when she was pregnant with me, she was snorting cocaine. She says she’s clean now but I know she still drinks a lot.”
My heart ached for him. I knew what it was like to have a bad relationship with your parents. How it affected your social skills and your ability to relate to other people. You couldn’t escape it no matter how far you ran. For me, moving from Texas to Massachusetts wasn’t far enough. I thought I had it bad but it sounded like Marty had it even worse.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, continuing to rub his back to soothe him. “I didn’t know.”
He brightened unexpectedly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s in the past.” He touched my cheek and kissed me. “I know I have a short fuse sometimes but I’m working on it. And you make me want to be better.”
***
“Are you taking your medications?” I asked Marty. We were sitting in a secluded alcove of the Houghton library trying to study.
He had another bad episode recently when he punched a second hole in his wall because a professor criticized a point in one of his essays. The first hole had only been patched two months ago. We’d done it together with some do-it-yourself spackle from a nearby hardware store.
During that time, I’d recommended that he should see a therapist. He was reluctant at first but I finally convinced him to do it. After a few sessions, they told him he had borderline personality disorder, which meant his emotions were amplified and he was very impulsive. He could switch from extreme elation to extreme anger or depression quickly. All from a small trigger—slight criticism, a misunderstanding, etc.
His condition was both good and bad. The times he was happy, he was really happy, which made him the best person in the world to be around. He could brighten your day even if you had just attended a funeral that morning. That was part of the reason girls—and even some men—were attracted to him like moths to a flame. He just had that kind of energy.
But the times he was unhappy, he was awful to be around. It was like a black cloud loomed over his head, tainting everything around him. He would rant and rave, exhibit bitterness, paranoia, and sometimes become physically violent—but he had never hurt me. I had a hard time believing such a wonderful person could become so terrible so quickly. It made me nervous that he could switch between the two extremes in a heartbeat.
Dr. Perkins had prescribed him medication that he was to take regularly. It was supposed to regulate his mood fluctuations. Make him more balanced like the average person. Less volatile.
“No. I can’t think straight when I’m on them. I have to write this paper that’s due tomorrow.”
I felt extremely frustrated. “Do you care about me Marty?”
“Kristen, I care about you more than anything else. You know that.”
“Yeah, Marty. I know. But you understand how it affects me when you don’t take your meds right? It makes me scared.” Tears began welling in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, but it was so frustrating not being able to get through to him. He needed help and I felt helpless in aiding him.
“Shh, shh.” He put his arms around my shoulders and rubbed my arm up and down. “I’m sorry, Kristen. I’ll take them.”
I wiped tears from my face with my hand. “Are you going to your sessions?”
“Yeah I am . . . just not in the past few weeks.”
“You need to go to your sessions,” I said, trying my best not to sound like I was nagging.
“I know, but Dr. Perkins is a dolt. She doesn’t understand me. I’m not getting much from talking with her.”
“She’s supposed to be one of the best therapists on the east coast for treating your condition. Please, Marty. Won’t you do it for me?”