So Relied Upon-Chapter 1:

Dust out the demons inside

Desire to excel was the high octane fuel he needed to drive on He could barely remember a time when he had operated at the same rate as the other kids his age. That's why he'd started working at 15. He didn't have to, he wanted to. The money was useful, but more than that he wanted some kind of autonomy he felt he lacked. It gave him something that belonged to him. The paycheck gave him some financial freedom. The job bought him an identity away from his family. He wasn't just Tom and Matt's brother or Laura and Thomas's son. The people he worked with didn't know anything about him that he didn't let them know.

His parents would swear they never pushed him but he always felt like he had something to prove. He'd never been able to put his finger on what it was, but he knew that it was real and a large building block of his identity. His mother never ran out of good things to say about him. Thomas Wilson was often heard stating that his youngest was a "chip off the old block." Jimmy just kept moving. He did what he felt was expected. Long hours of school and work filled the time. Some days he started so early that if there had been a rooster nearby he could've told the bird when it was time to wake the rest of the family."

Any diversion from his course as dutiful son caused his parents to register concern. They couldn't believe that he would work as hard as he did without regards to saving for the future. They didn't see that the job was just a distraction. The work he did afforded him no responsibility. That was the appeal. The mental relaxation outweighed the financial payments.

The job was immediate. His ability to work a cash register and engage customers in friendly conversation were not skills he considered imperative to his future success. Payday meant treating the girl of the moment to dinner and a movie. Paychecks rarely lasted past the weekend.

"Don't you think you should save more of your money from your job? If you spend it all on girls what'll it get you?"

"Laid, if I'm lucky," he'd thought, but he didn't have the nerve to say. His attempts at sex hadn't made it beyond a couple of groping, sloppy trips to third base. He wanted more. Convincing a woman to sleep with him was goal. Something else to be conquered and perfected.

A blip, a misplaced piece of reality on the rim of a dream. He awoke, startled and disoriented. His mind searched for some misplaced, vital, piece of information. He sat up and stared at the darkness. The room offered no answer. He fell back against his pillow.

He couldn't shake that unnamed nagging feeling. It was just a feeling at first. During his classes, his hand would reach down towards his bag. He would casually root around for some object he was unaware he had misplaced. The back of his skull ached with a near revelation. He almost could make out the answer, but it was too blurry.

At nighttime the dull sensation in the back the of his head became a scream. The dark, quiet, suburban house held a battle. He was Blue and the Gray, the Axis and the Allies. No, it wasn't that clear cut, he was Spy vs. Spy from Mad Magazine. Two sides of one image, fighting an unnamed battle with no clear goal. He came to dread how his attempts at rest would awaken new sparks of anxiety. Not resting. So many nights he found no rest. Fighting the hot blue flashes and the melting greens and oranges that came after a mental yell. His brain created burst of color when he tried to drown out the half-formed thoughts that clawed into his brain, holding on tighter and with greater ferocity as the restless nights piled one on top of the other. He couldn't sleep. There was no sleeping with that going on.

Even without sleep school offered no challenge. His rest deprived brain retained the necessary information. Tests gave him a sense of calm satisfaction. He finished quickly. When he was done, he flipped the paper over and put his head down on his desk. He was able to relax. Sleeping was easy then, he was in control. Questions and answers. Facts and figures. Those things he controlled. He learned to love the physical. Tangible entities, based on proof, masses in a space and time that he could see or touch or manipulate. It was the other that kept him up at night. The thing he couldn't explain. He knew this thing didn't belong to anyone but him. As much as it bothered him he didn't mention it to any of his friends, or God forbid, his parents. It was his and he would adjust.

"James, can you stay after class?" his English teacher asked.

He waited at his desk as the room emptied.

"Your essays were very interesting. Very unique take on the questions and subject matter. I was particularly impressed with your points about Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle."

"Thank you, I appreciate that," he managed a smile as he prepared to leave.

"I would've been much more impressed if I'd asked you about that book. That's not even on the reading list this year."

"I read. I can't sleep, so I read."

"You don't seem to have much trouble sleeping, in my class. When I looked at you today you looked ready to fall off your chair. Your eyes were completely glazed over,' she sounded concerned.

At first it scared him to watch the chalk melt down the board. The green of the chalk board lit up with the sparks from the friction created by the falling letters. It was lack of sleep, that's all. Not like he was going crazy or anything. He would concentrate harder on his notes, writing every word the teacher said and refusing to look back toward the board. But he always would look back. There was no way not to. The words would reassemble. It became part of the school experience. In order to survive, he adapted.

Nothing's changed. The words are right where they always were. Everything is just like it's always been.

You know that's not true. You saw it too.

I know I'm not letting you act crazy.

I know what I saw.

You do know crazy people talk to themselves, right?

Shut up. Just shut the hell up.

Appearances were everything.

"You may not feel marvelous, but darling, you look marvelous," he would remark to his reflection in his best Billy Crystal voice. "It is better to look good than to feel good."

He would be in the bathroom before anyone else was up, fixing his shirt, polishing his loafers to a perfect shine, styling his hair to fall in just the right way. High school wasn't the place to show weakness. The perfect specimen of American preppy, his wardrobe was straight from the Alex P. Keaton catalogue. He was smart, and handsome and the future had no visible limitations.

The open refrigerator cast a thin weak line of light across the kitchen. Another nightmare, another sleepless night. Jimmy rested his arm on the top of the door. He pulled out a plate of leftovers and orange juice. He shut the door and carried the food over to the kitchen table. No one was awake to bitch at him to use a glass. He drank straight from the carton and picked at the chicken with his fingers.

The soft, whining sound of the screen door startled him out of his daze. He got quickly up and walked toward the entry way. A soft sound that Jimmy took to be the lifting and lowering of the lid on the mailbox proceeded the click of the key turning in the lock.

Tom walked into the house. He moved slowly, determined to stealthily get in and out without being noticed. Jimmy stood in the darkened kitchen and watched his brother move down the hall and into the living room. Rustles and blind shuffling sounds were barely audible from the other room. Taking a cue from his brother Jimmy quietly made his way into the doorway between the living room and the hallway. Tom had taken his father's cigar box off of the bookshelf. He opened the box and began rustling through the contents.

"What are you doing?"

Tom flinched. "Jimmy, what the fuck are you doing up?"

"I asked first."

"I left something here the last time I was over, I just stopped by for it." Tom sat the box down on the end table. Placing a hand on the back of the recliner, he attempted a casual stance.

"It's three in the morning, Tom. This time of night people need two things, sleep or bail money." He walked over to his brother. A wad of crumbled bills had fallen onto the table. Even in the dark he could see enough to know there was something wrong. "What's going on?"

"Nothing you need to know, kid." Tom turned his head away from his brother and began to feel his way out of the living room.

Jimmy winced at his brother's last word. "Don't assume you've got the family market cornered on fucked up Big Brother." The last two words came out as a whispered snarl. This animosity caused Tom to stop. Jimmy was trembling. His eyes were closed tight. The palms of his hands pressed against his temples. It was hard enough acting like there was nothing wrong with him. He couldn't cover for his brother as well.

Tom walked over and put his hands on Jimmy's shoulders. "I'm not your problem, Jim. Whatever's screwing with you, I'm not part of it." He squeezed his brother's arms and turned to leave.

"Tom…" Jimmy followed his brother out onto the porch. His brother didn't respond as he walked down the path towards his car. Jimmy stood on the porch and watched as the Oldsmobile pulled away from the curb and drove in darkness to the end of the street. Tom flicked the headlight on as he turned the corner. Jimmy turned around and went back into the house.

Spring break of that year his parents insisted he take some time off and relax. His aunt and uncle lived near the Jersey shore and offered their spare bedroom. He'd been working close to 30 hours a week. His grades were impressive. They said he deserved a rest. He agreed, he needed to rest. He politely declined the invitation from his aunt and uncle. Most of his spring break he stayed in his room asleep or watching whatever channel he could pick up on the portable TV. His mother would knock on the door and ask if he'd like to come down to dinner. After a couple of days he wasn't sure he was answering her, or if he really heard her asking. A couple of times, he was pretty sure he joined them.

Sleep. When sleep came it crashed into him, knocked him down and left him powerless to do anything. The next morning, or evening, afternoon, it didn't matter what time it was. He didn't have anywhere he needed to be, or anywhere to go. Those days, he would wake up, his body would be telling him to move, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. His arms felt fixed, like he was tied to the bed. His legs were rendered immobile by some unknown force. He would stay there, wishing the feeling wouldn't end. If he was paralyzed he would be free. It sounded crazy but he had it all figured out. If he couldn't move like he was supposed to he wouldn't have to fight. No one expects a cripple to behave normally. He wouldn't have to worry about looking normal or fitting in, he could be different and act out and it would all be the fault of something tangible. A disability. A physical disability seemed easier to handle. Some visible problem upon which he could blame an invisible trauma.

Hot, heavy streaks of weakness streaked down his face leaving damp stains on his pillow. In his search for proof that there was something physically wrong with him, he could only produce tears. Alone, he allowed himself the luxury of self-pity. His mother's footsteps down the hall broke his revelry. He tossed his leaden body towards the wall. She couldn't see this, he couldn't cry. No, he's a strong boy. He wouldn't worry anyone.

"Would you come down for breakfast? I made your favorite. Warm maple syrup and eggs, too."

"Not this morning, Mom."

Did he sound all right? He thought that he did

"Could you bring them up here?

She did, everyday that week she'd brought him meals if he didn't get up to join the family. When she came to take away the plate the look in her eyes was the look of every worried mother since before Mary had fretted Jesus was spending too much time out in the desert.

"You look pale. I'll bring you another sandwich."

He'd changed the channel to The Joker's Wild and told her he was fine.

"Just tired, Ma."

The pressure in the back of his head left like it had arrived. He didn't even realize he wasn't feeling it until he couldn't place when last it had been there. He finished his final year of high school without any further incidents. Everything was the way it was supposed to be.