What the fuck just happened?

We were having such a good time. Eric seemed relaxed and eager. I knew there was something, some hang-up that was the reason why he snapped that first time I tried to go further, and while I was expecting that maybe there might be some tension or uneasiness or that he would bail altogether, I couldn’t have expected that reaction.

I thought he was having a seizure, the way he freaked out and started shouting and clawing around him like he was fighting someone off. Even when he calmed down, I could tell he was still so fucking uneasy.

When he finally managed to formulate words, he just said, “My bag…Xanax.”

I fished through and found the prescription bottle and a bottle of water. Through some talking and walking him through it, he managed to get one down.

I lie beside him on the air mattress, on the part I cleaned up after the incident. He’s calmed down and is breathing shallowly, staring up at the top of the tent. He’s been like this for hours. I don’t want to bother him, but I don’t want to leave him either. I asked him if we needed to leave, and he said very quickly, “No. It’ll pass.”

This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed. Was it because he knew I was interested in topping that he forced himself to do something that made him uncomfortable?

My guilt aside, there’s the issue of what the fuck happened to Eric. Who did this to him? It doesn’t take a fucking therapist to figure out that that’s clearly connected with something horrible that happened to him at the hands of some motherfucker I want to find and beat the shit out of.

Before, I thought it might have been the case or that it could have been some strange personal quirk, but now I’m confident in my conclusion.

I want answers, but at the same time, there’s this awareness within me that this isn’t something Eric wanted me to know. Surely, he thinks I don’t have a right to pry about this. It’s Eric’s choice to decide whether or not he even wants to talk about that with me. Even though we just today acknowledged we’re in a relationship, I know that’s a hell of a thing to try and discuss with someone.

I hear him gulp. I’m on my side, rolled away from him on the mattress. I turn to him. It’s the most noise I’ve heard come from him in the past hour, maybe even more noise than I’ve heard since I checked my phone for the time.

I’ve kept Eric’s lantern on beside us. I haven’t seen a reason to turn it off since I doubt either of us is getting sleep anytime soon. Not until I know for sure that he’s okay. Not until he’s able to assure me with more than the repeated mantra about it needing to just pass.

“How are you feeling?” I ask. As the words move past my lips, they feel like the stupidest thing I could say, because I’ve asked that so many times since his breakdown.

This time is different, though.

He turns toward me but doesn’t make eye contact. “I’m feeling better now,” he says.

Relief washes through me. Some of the color has returned to his face, and he sounds much more lucid—more like his usual self.

“Eric, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up anything and—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I hear the words, but I can feel his tension and uneasiness. He’s still not looking me in the eye. How am I supposed to feel like I didn’t do something wrong when he won’t even look at me?

“Are you actually okay? Do you need anything else? I can get you some more water. Or, do you need to eat something?”

He shakes his head, tucking his face low to the sheet.

He may be older than I am, but in this moment, he’s like a sick child I’m trying to help. He won’t let me know what he needs, and that’s all I want…to help.

“I’m sorry.” His words practically choke in his throat. “I didn’t mean to ruin this weekend.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Eric. I’m sorry this happened. I was hoping this was going to be this lovely night, that I would be able to make you feel good, not the exact opposite of that.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Finally, he makes eye contact, which makes me feel a little better.

“Eric—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He may say I didn’t do anything wrong, and I keep telling myself that as I replay what happened over and over again, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Eric, I just—”

His face tightens up like he’s worried I’m going to bring back all those terrible feelings that had him so crippled when we were messing around.

“No, I was just going to say that it’s okay if you don’t want to say anything. I don’t want to make this any more painful for you. I do care about you, Eric. It’s very clear you’re not ready to talk to me about whatever it is, and I respect that. I don’t want to make you feel like you have to talk about anything you’re uneasy with, but I want you to know that I am here if and when you do decide to talk to me.”

I chuckle, not because there’s anything funny, but because this whole situation is so goddamn awkward, I can’t help it.

“Sorry,” I say. “There isn’t exactly a manual for what I’m supposed to say, and I’m not very good at figuring out how to deal with shit like…”

I’m being careful, even now, trying not to say the stupidest thing imaginable.

“Just know I’m here, Eric, and I meant that when I said I want to be in a relationship with you. There are a lot of things that come along with relationships that aren’t pretty. We’re still learning about each other, and you’re going to find out things about me you probably will hate. Not necessarily big, but things we still have to learn about each other. I want to learn more about you is all I’m saying, and I would never want you to feel like I’m trying to hurt you or push you to do something you don’t want to do.”

I’m referring to sex…and so much more. That instance wasn’t just about me touching his ass, but about whatever nightmarish experiences he endured…whatever has been haunting him long enough that something seemingly simple can still trigger it.

Eric doesn’t respond. He turns and looks up at the top of the tent.

I lie back down.

Did I ruin everything?

Did my attempt at reaching out to him and being honest and open actually hurt him more?

Maybe I should have worded it differently. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything and just let him take the lead on this.

At the same time, I want him to know I’m there for him. There is this fear in my mind that we’ll return home and that will be the end of it. I worry he won’t want to be with me now that I’ve seen this part of him that he clearly doesn’t want to acknowledge exists, and I really don’t want it to be over.

I roll away from him. It’s the most space I can give him right now as we lie here awkwardly in the tent together.

A tear forms in my eye. So fucking appropriate that our dream date would get screwed up in the most shit-tastic way possible. Whether I want to acknowledge it or not, it is my fault. I can’t convince myself otherwise.

After a few minutes, maybe even an hour, I hear Eric cough before saying, “Thank you, Jesse. Thank you for being here.”

Such a simple comment, but it gives me some hope that at least he knows, as shitty of a job as I might be doing of handling this, I care and am doing the best I can.

I keep trying to go to sleep, but I can’t shake out of my head the image of Eric breaking down. I see him turning white and shaking and convulsing. I see the panic and fear in his eyes.

Who hurt you, Eric?