He’s seen a therapist before, where he was diagnosed with some mild anxiety. They gave him sleeping pills in an attempt to keep him thoroughly conked out, but he doesn’t like taking them. Says they make him groggy.

So instead, we got the gate, and confined him to upstairs. And now, his subconscious brings him in only one direction. My bedroom.

I know it’s not healthy. I’m not a lunatic. But the thing is, I don’t have the heart to stop him. Jesse is a strong-willed kid. He’s smart and grounded, but he’s always suffered within himself. He’s quiet about his emotions, and he internalizes everything. I think I know where he gets it from…

For as much as I’ve raised him, as well as I could as a nineteen-year-old without a clue, I know Jesse feels the absence of his real parents. He’d never voice it to me, but he does. He knows I’m not them… And I’ve always wondered if I’m glad about that fact or saddened by it.

I don’t know if I want to be his father, or just his guardian. There’s a big difference in the two.

Sure, I’ve done everything I can to give him a loving, stable home over the years. He doesn’t call me Dad, and I’m totally fine with that. I try to talk about his parents with him as much as possible, but at this point, it’s been so long since they were around, I barely remember what they were like anymore.

It fucking sucks. Because they were my only family…

And now I have this boy of theirs, who’s supposed to be mine just as much, and I don’t have any way of helping him. I don’t think he’s broken on the inside… I sure as shit hope not, because I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to make sure he’s whole.

Jesse turns in the bed, shifting onto his stomach with his face mashed into the pillow. My bed is big enough that there’s plenty of room between us. I wouldn’t let this happen if there weren’t. But I also don’t make any immediate attempts at moving him, and I don’t really know why.

I just want to keep him comfortable for a little while longer, and if this will do it, then fine. I’m not sure why he comes into my room in his sleep, but I refuse to make him feel bad about it, or myself either, for that matter. I don’t know if he remembers any part of doing this, but we don’t talk about it.

And let’s just say, this is one giant reason why I always spent the night at Leslie’s house. Over two years of seeing each other, she’d only spent the night in my bed twice. And both times, I locked my bedroom door, and stayed awake all night, stressing about Jesse, hoping he wouldn’t try to get in while she was here.

Fucked up, I know, but what can I do?