was the entire first week. I didn’t do a thing but sob uncontrollably into my pillow.
Every time I’d cry out his name, Kane would come running through the door within 15 minutes. He has to have my place bugged. I should be offended or angry, but I’m not. Maybe that makes me more sick than I thought I was. But I feel safe knowing he’s watching over me. My chest hurts, and I have to take a deep breath to calm myself.
I’d ask Kane to just hold me, and he would. No questions asked. It happened nearly every night for the first few nights. But on the fifth day without him, I cried myself to sleep alone. Waking up without him hurt so fucking much. But I need to take care of myself.
I need to do this on my own. I can’t rely on him.
“So no more negative thoughts?” the doctor asks.
“Of suicide, you mean?” I just want to be sure I know what she’s asking.
“Yes, or any thoughts of self-harm. Your nightmares increased on the other meds, but you didn’t say anything about any desire to hurt yourself.”
I nod my head as she takes off her glasses and folds them, holding them in her hands. “Right. Not since the wedding night. And the night terrors are gone now that I’m off the other meds.”
“That’s great to hear.” She puts the glasses back on and looks back down at the pad in her lap. “Now, how are you feeling on this prescription?”
“Normal. Just like before.”
“But before you were having occasional lapses? Have you had any this week?” she asks.
I shake my head. “None yet. I usually would have had a reminder or two by now.” That’s what I’m calling them, reminders.
“And how would you have reacted to those reminders in the past?”
“I would’ve thought I was a horrible person; thought I was undeserving. A lot of self-doubt.” My heart twists in my chest.
I didn’t deserve that. I wasn’t okay though. I don’t think I’m okay now, either. “I don’t feel like that now, but...” I trail off, twisting the tissue in my hands and start picking at the ends. I look out of the bright office window and wonder how I should word this.
“I’m afraid.” I swallow the lump growing in my throat. “I’m afraid that something is going to remind me about everything, and I’m going to snap again.”
“That’s what the meds are for.”
“So I’ll have to be on antidepressants for the rest of my life?”
“We could try to wean you off of them if you’d like.” I’m surprised how casually she responds.
“Is that dangerous?” I ask.
“Not if you’re honest with yourself and with me. You had triggers that day, but you did nothing about them. You’re aware now of what could happen.”
“I am. And I won’t let that happen again.” I won’t. I don’t want to die. I didn’t live through all of that to end my own life.
“I’m very proud of you, Ava. Not many people are able to get a good look at themselves the way that you have.”
“Thank you,” I respond, although I feel awkward. I’m not proud. I’m ashamed.
“How’s your scar?” she asks, as her eyes dart to my shoulder. It’s a warm day outside, so my skin is exposed.
“One more treatment left to go, but I can’t even see it.” The surgeon said there was a small amount of scar tissue still, but I can’t see a damn thing. It makes me smile. I’m happy I never got the tattoo. It would have been a constant reminder. This is so much better.
“That’s wonderful.” She jots something down before looking back up at me. “And your weight? Is that back to normal now?”
“I’m still finding it difficult to eat.” It’s been hard for me to gain weight.
She purses her lips and writes some more. I hate it when she does that. Usually I know what she’s writing. But her pen keeps going and I find myself trying to read the fucking novel she’s writing.
“You’re looking well though, Ava. Are you feeling better as a whole?”
“I am.” I started jogging again. I used to fucking hate it. My sister used to make me go with her. It’s nice though. I can see why she liked it. I don’t know why she dragged my ass out along with her though. I don’t want company when I’m running. I just like the music, the feeling of being free. The burn of my muscles.
It wears my ass out