A Small Voice

Chapter Thirty-Four

"Let your conversationbe without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have: for hehath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."Hebrews 13:5

When I returned to the hotel, I walked into the room and Rachel was sitting on a club chair by the old hotel desk. Her knees were to her chest and she was hugging them with her hands.

"Where were you?" she asked.

Coming closer, I could see her eyes were red, and her face weary from worry and our long journey here. "I just went out for a bit." I knelt on the floor beside her. "I felt so bad for being such an idiot, ruining our wedding night." I lowered my eyes to the green carpet. "I feel so ashamed. My only goal in life is to love you, and I can't even seem to do that properly."

She wrapped her arms around me. "It's okay. I was so scared. I felt so alone without you, Dan, in this big city. Please don't leave me like that again. I'm sorry for being angry."

I breathed her in. "I won't leave you, Rach, I promise. Don't be sorry for being angry. I deserved it. My goal is to be the perfect, Christian husband to you."

***

And I was, for a few months. The church owned many properties in the city, and let us live in a beautiful house in a nice neighborhood, rent-free. It was a perk of the job, since Rach was now one of the church Ministers. That, and her pay was very low.

We had a blast moving into a large residence with literally two suitcases. We used some of our wedding money to buy basics—plates, cutlery, and a couple of pots. We feasted on a steady diet of spaghetti—since it was the only thing either of us knew how to cook—and drank soda with it, toasting each other like it was fine wine. It was surreal, like we were playing house, and I guess we kind of were. Being a Christian couple was really was odd, and I kept coming back to the fact that prior our vows, we were wedged apart by religious traditions, and then suddenly we were intimate in every way, not only sexually, but in proximity and emotionally, too.

This new intimacy was more complicated than I imagined. For one, I got the feeling that Rachel was not sure how to act in bed, especially with her new role in the church, so I became accustomed to her simply "star fishing" while I fucked her, missionary-style. It was okay, though; I knew I had to keep my interest in sexual deviation at bay. Besides, my favorite part of the whole arrangement was the opportunity to hold Rachel's small body in my arms all night long. For a time, it seemed to be all I needed, but eventually I started to feel my demons stir.

It worried me.

***

About six months into our adventure as a married couple, I began to feel anxious again. Up until then, the only drug I was using was my cuddles with Rachel, and the brief orgasms from our nominal sex life. My anxiety came at a really bad time. I was just getting some momentum with my guitar-lesson business. My students loved me, and a lot of the mothers as well. But, during a couple of recent lessons, I'd had panic attacks, and barely made it through the session, my hands shaking so much I couldn't play. Luckily, I was able to fake it through the hour, and my young students didn't pick up on my mental anguish. But now that the memories of those moments were fixed in my mind, every lesson became a chore of trying to subdue my anxious thoughts, while at the same time, trying to teach. It was excruciating, and I began to dread teaching altogether. I called Tammy, and she advised me to get on some medication, something the church did not believe in. Mental health treatments and Evangelicals don't mix. Christ is the only medication you need, and mental instability is a side effect of one's poor relationship with God. Those who follow Christ properly have no depression or anxiety. That was the stance of not only this church, but of all the churches I'd ever attended.

So, I decided to return to my previous mode of self-medication, alcohol. We'd bought a little car, and I would drop Rach off for work at the church every morning at 8:30. Then, I would drive about thirty minutes to a pharmacy in a sketchier area, where I was unlikely to bump into anyone from the congregation, and buy a small bottle of vodka and a soft drink. I would drink half of the bottle on the way home, teach my lessons, drink the rest, get rid of the bottle somewhere, and pick Rachel up.

It worked unsurprisingly well, but inevitably I was becoming immune to the numbing effects of that level of consumption. I felt especially anxious when we attended church services. It was mandatory for staff to attend, and we were at church on Sunday morning and evenings, as well as a midweek Wednesday evening service. I hated that we had to sit up front. I felt guilty pretending that I enjoyed the long-ass sermons, when all I really wanted to do was get fucked up, or fuck some of the prettier women in the congregation, in ways that Christ would certainly not approve of. I began spending each service counting and breathing, trying not to get overly anxious, asking Christ to forgive me in my mind repeatedly for anything that came to my mind, hoping he would intervene and keep my anxiety repressed, at least until the end of the service.

After a year, I'd had enough of that torture and made sure to get an extra bottle of vodka for each of the three services. It became a bit of an art form to hide them from Rachel, but I was inventive and pulled it off. I played the perfect Christian husband, and slowly became comfortable with the idea that Christ would not judge me for drinking, especially since it gave me the ability to support Rach. Oh, and breath mints. I was buying a shitload of breath mints, for obvious reasons.

Year two in Chicago was when my temple began to fall down on top of me. I started getting very agoraphobic, and had trouble in busy, public places. I hated the large grocery store chains and always felt panicked there, like I was going to have a heart attack or act completely mad in front of all of the faceless shoppers. So, I began to buy the groceries at the small drug store where I bought my vodka every morning. I could see the door from any vantage point from within the store, and it somehow soothed me. But, buying groceries at an overpriced corner store was hard on the wallet.

One day, Rachel started complaining about our lack of money, and I had to come clean. I told her about my anxiety. I guess I should have known it would have been okay to tell her. As sanctified as she was now, she didn't grow up an Evangelical, and therefore didn't have that ingrained abhorrence to all things secular medicine. She encouraged me to go to the doctor, and I did. He prescribed me Xanax, as well as recommended me to a psychologist. The second recommendation, the shrink, even Rachel agreed we should keep on the down low. The type of Christians we were did not use psychologists. We were supposed to be the alternative, the secret to finding peace and tranquility. The church, they all believed, was the best psychologist of them all. But, I started going to the therapist every week diligently, and it helped.

In fact, everything started to progress in my life. I was able to handle my anxiety and bouts of guilt-fed depression with legitimate medicine—although I never stopped my vodka ritual—and got to the point where I even joined the church's music team, an accomplishment that Rachel always hoped I'd achieve. Unknowingly, it was a stroke of marketing genius; between five and eight thousand people saw me play guitar every service. My teaching business was quickly infused with ample amounts of interest, to the point where I couldn't take on more students. How would I have known it would be my very last registration that would shake me to the core?

A pupil blurred the lines of my still-forming beliefs and awakened my subdued demons. They were gods—the ancient ones, originating far before Christ—no longer dormant in my genes. Those primal divinities cared nothing about sanctity, ideology, or morality. And for the fourth time in my young life, I became interested in a girl.