What I Had Done
*I put the stupid paragraph breaks in, and they go away once I save. Sorry if it sounds like one long run on story.*
How can it be possible for everything to go wrong, just as it's starting to go right?
I got the news on Friday. After the show, I went back to our hotel in Ecuador with Ashley and turned on Mad Men. We were only 5 minutes in when I heard a knock on my door. It was my dad.
"Joe, can I talk to you outside for a moment?" he asked, still in the doorway.
I pulled my hand free from Ashley's and followed my dad out into the hall. That's when I heard the news: Demi had quit the tour, and she's going to rehab.
Not rehab, I reminded myself 3 days later. A treatment center. She's getting help.
The news had put me in a difficult situation. Demi and I had dated for a few months before breaking up. She seemed okay with it, but I realized she was still upset and angry. What had I done?
A few short months later, we were weeks into our tour together when I grew closer with Ashley, my girlfriend today. She followed us on the tour, and naturally, I didn't mind. It was way better than not seeing her for a year.
Only after Demi had left the tour for good did I begin thinking about what had caused this breaking news report. I soon realized with horror that I might be part of the problem. For her, touring and singing with me was probably hard enough. But seeing Ashley every day, having what she didn't? Mocking her title as yet another Jonas ex-girlfriend? For Demi, it must have been torture. And I was starting to feel bad that I hadn't realized anything, and was adding to her depression.
Before we dated and split, Demi had been my best friend in the entire world. We were Shane and Mitchie, inseparable forever. Or so I thought.
From our breakup on, things were very tense between us. I could tell they weren't going to get better fast. But living the way we were, there was only so much I could do. And even if she missed our friendship too, she didn't seem willing to make amends. So unfortunately, we didn't.
The poor girl had other stresses as well. Her parents divorce, father's cancer, not seeing him for two years, cutting, depression, anorexia, plus work requirements and seeing Ashley every day. As I thought of all this, it seemed to become a weight on my shoulders. She used to be the most important thing in my life. And I had let her down. What had I done?
I knew I had to do something to help. I couldn't just sit there. So I grabbed a jacket, and headed out the door. Hopefully, she was well enough to accept visitors.
The treatment center turned out to be a huge facility, almost hospital like. It gave me an eerie feeling, like this was finally all real, and it was bad.
I walked in the front door and made my way over to the receptionist. "I'm here to see Demetria Lovato," I told her. "Can she have visitors?"
The older lady looked to her computer, and to my relief, nodded. "Her condition is stable. You can see her, room G223."
I thanked her and made my way down the hall, anticipation in every step.
I found Demi's room a few minutes later. Everything was labeled like an apartment building. Her door was a solemn gray color. A clipboard hung next to it. Demetria Lovato, it read. Emotional depression, physical body mutilation, anorexia nervosa.
My stomach dropped after reading that. All three of those could kill.
I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. "Demi?" I called hesitantly. No answer. "Demi, it's Joe. Can I come in?" Still no answer. I turned the door handle and walked in, looking around.
The room was set up like a hotel. Bed, TV, little kitchen, closet, bathroom, the works. Demi was sitting on the couch in the corner, her back to me as she looked out the window.
I walked closer and put a hand on her shoulder. "Demi?"
She slowly turned to face me, her expression drained and face pale. "What are you doing here?" she asked in almost a montone.
I swallowed, trying not to look too taken aback by her appearance. "I-I wanted to see you," I replied.
She turned back to the window. "Oh."
My gaze traveled down to her arms. What were once angry red slash marks on her wrists had faded to a dull, dark red. Her cuts were starting to heal over.
I reached out to rest a hand above her scar, but she jerked her wrist away. I pulled mine back. "Sorry," I said awkwardly.
Why was thing so freaking hard? I had no idea what to do to make her feel better or not. I didn't want to be a burden. It seemed helpless.
"Look, Demi," I told her, as she still faced away from me. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. If I ever did anything to land you in this place, I'm sorry. I feel really bad, and I just want you to know that I'm here if you need me."
No answer. I gave up and headed for the door. Turning around one last time, I said, "I...I don't want you to hurt yourself or anything. But I'm not going to tell you what to do, or stand in your way." I opened the door. "Bye, Dem. Love you, sister."
I left with that, walking down the hall towards the building exit. What I had said was true. I did love her. She was still my sister. I just hoped she realized, before it was too late.