The conversation was suddenly making Silas uncomfortable. Probably because Brooks made a lot of sense, but the idea of actually doing some of the things he talked about was a little terrifying. Who knew how they’d take it if he said something to them, and telling them that it was detrimental to his recovery felt like a guilt trip, even if it wasn’t. He’d think about it. Maybe eventually he wouldn’t feel so chicken about saying something about it. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, a pretty clear indication that he’d at least taken in what Brooks had said, even if his response seemed like a brush off.
He opened the second beer for something to focus on; something that wasn’t Brooks and the truth he was saying. No two ways around it, Brooks had it right and Silas just needed to grow a pair and do what he’d been avoiding. Not like it was easy to suck it up and potentially piss people off, though.
“You put a hell of a damper on self-loathing,” he muttered around the neck of the beer before he swallowed half of it down in one go. “Like, the fucking worst person to call when all someone wants to do is pity themselves.” He set the bottle down and balanced the chair again. “Good person or bad, I still got problems, man.” Wasn’t that why they’d start this? To deal with his problems. “Even if I’m not a villain, I’m that guy that keeps making the mistakes.”
Again, he’d hit the nail on the head. “Here’s the thing. I come from a place of never really being wanted. Dad was never in the picture, mom skipped out, and the only person that more than tolerated me was my gran,” he explained, because he felt like Brooks deserved to know where his head was at. “So the concept of people sticking around ‘cause they want to is new to me. So it’s fucking easier to assume they deal with me, tolerate me, whatever,” he shrugged again, a little self-conscious now. “I’m not trying to block ‘em out, but it’s easier to think that my shit is my shit, and they don’t have to carry it around with ‘em.”
There was that hard pill to swallow again. Hard only because he had so much trouble believing it was true. “It’s the ‘no matter what’ bit I got a problem swallowing,” he retorted. “My own family couldn’t hold that part up.” Did he really give them a chance to? No, probably not. But he was young and stupid. “How the hell do I even get to believing what you’re saying?” Rhetorical, but only sort of. It was pretty damn clear that the way he thought wasn’t healthy for him or anyone; given the fact that most people would recognize they were trying to be better, and here he was still beating himself down like he deserved it.
Had they covered the three things? Maybe. He didn’t really know anymore. They’d talked about the addiction shit, and now it seemed like it was his self-worth, which not surprise there, was pretty damn low right now. Not that it’d ever been glaringly high.
“Like, I get theoretically why they’d stick around, but I keep waiting for that other shoe to drop and leave me sitting by myself wondering what the hell happened,” he leaned forward on his elbows, eyes on the table. “You’re gonna tell me that’s my fucking issue, right?”