Miss Jackson {b.u.}

{14}

Brendon Urie:
My hands scattered around the in the nightstand drawers, trying to look for my wallet. As my hand grazed the back of the drawer, I felt two pill bottles and pulled them out. I read the label. Prescription pills for Joanne. Sertraline and Fluoxetine. PTSD pills and OCD and or panic disorder pills. I felt a rush of anger building up inside of me. I walked out to the kitchen and her eyes darted toward me as I shoved the pill bottles in her face, "why didn't you tell me?"

Her face dropped and her eyes widened. She tried to grab the bottles away from me but I pulled them back, "i'm not asking again. Why didn't you tell me?"

She ran her fingers through her hair, "I didn't want you to think of me any differently!"

I slammed the pill bottles on the table and scoffed, "you really think i'd change my feelings all because you take some pills?"

"As a matter of fact—yes I do."

I pressed my hands against my hips and shook my head, "you could've at least told me that you have struggles with mental health."

"God," she threw her hands up, "i don't want your goddamn pity!"

"Really?" I questioned and tossed my hands up, "so this you that i've known isn't really Joanne Jackson?"

"This was just the one thing I never wanted you to know."

"Try me."

"I have ptsd! I have an OCD and a panic disorder! That's about as scary as I could get."

"Baby, those things never ever scared me," I began and walked over to her, "why the hell would they?"

She backed away from me and rolled her eyes. I could tell her anxieties were heightening by the way her nostrils were flaring and how she started to crack her knuckles, "hey. look at me. It's okay," I trailed off and pulled her in close, "we're okay."

She took a deep breath in and a deep breath out, "i'm not mad at you. I was just a little lost as to why you didn't tell me and i'm sorry for coming off the way I did, baby."

I watched as her nerves calmed down. I could tell she just wanted to open up now, rather than keep it all bottled inside. I took her outside to the balcony and we sat on the chairs. The wind blowing in her beautiful hair and she just stared out into the distance, "i never thought i'd tell anyone my problems."

"Who's to say it's such a bad thing?"

She didn't move those deep brown eyes away from the view, "it's not," she began and her voice stuttered for a moment, "just uh...maybe it's a lot."

I asserted my attention to only her. Watching her body movements. To be fair, she did look a tad emotionless, "you look a little pale, babe. Are you okay?"

"I don't think you even want to hear it."

I moved my hand to her and grazed my thumb against her hand, "i'm doing this to learn about you. Just because you think your flaws are flaws to me—they're not. They're just these beautiful imperfections that complete who you are."

She shifted in her seat, trying to find a way to be less anxious. I got up and squatted in front of her. Letting Joanne know I was serious. She looked up, so she didn't have to face the onslaught of nervousness that would come from eye contact, "I was abused when I was younger. My dad beat me...I lived in a world where drugs and alcohol were very very present. When mine and Alexandra's bedtime stories started to fade—I thought to myself, why? But I came to the conclusion it was because my dad wasn't just 'resting his eyes,' he was just too high or too drunk. And the way I would just randomly get beat. You think by now I'd stand up for myself," she began and just continued to speak. She struggled to let these sentences form, but it was traumatic—who wouldn't struggle, "and in middle school I was bullied a bit. I had a boyfriend at a very young age and he uhm...he did some inappropriate things that I didn't consent to."