Broken

I shake my head. I know what he’s trying to do and it’s not going to work. “Max has to love me. I’m his brother. And Theodore…his heart is too big to see the bad things.”

And there’s so much bad. So much darkness. Emptiness. I’m…I’m too tired.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Not particularly. “Go on.”

“I think you’re focusing on the bad because it’s easy.”

“Easy?” What the fuck? “You think what I’m feeling is easy?”

“I think it’s easier to accept things are never going to improve than fight for them to get better.”

“Are you even allowed to say things like that? Isn’t it against some kind of Therapist Rulebook? It’s not very professional.”

“Have the other professionals you’ve seen helped you?”

“No.”

“Then maybe it’s time to try a different approach.”

For the first time, I look him right in the eyes. His expression doesn’t falter, as if he genuinely believes there’s hope for me. I admire his optimism, but I can’t summon it myself.

“I’ve fought all my life. It doesn’t work.” Tears sting the back of my eyes and I pray they don’t fall. It’s clear by the fact I’m in here – dirty, unshaven, with bandaged wrists – that I’m weak, that I’m a failure. I don’t need to reinforce that knowledge by crying in front of him.

“I’ve being the operative word there. Nobody is capable of getting through this life alone, James. When your boat is drifting from the shore, it’s okay to use an anchor for support. We all need an anchor. Without people to love us, we’d just drift further and further away.”

“What if…” I want to stop talking now. I want to curl up on my side and go back to giving up. It hurts, and he’s right. Giving up is easier than this. “What if I’ve already drifted too far to be saved?”

“You almost did, but your anchor, Theodore, held you in place. Now you need to make the journey back to shore. It’s a long way, and it’s okay to need help getting there. That’s what I’m here for. That’s what your medications are for. That’s what the people you love are for. You do love them, right? Max, Theodore.”

“Of course I do.” Why would he ask that? I tried to leave them because I love them. I tried to free them.

“Robots can’t love,” he says with the smuggest grin on his face.

Suddenly, I’m laughing.

Laughing? Have you forgot where you are? What a mess you made of things? You have nothing to laugh about.

And so, the laughter fades, replaced with that damn knot of sadness, of hatred towards myself, bound tightly around my stomach.

“I think we’ll leave it there for today,” Peter says.

I feel an odd stab of disappointment. He can’t leave yet. He said he’d help me and he hasn’t. I’m not fixed yet, dammit!

“You did well today. Thank you for talking to me.”

I still can’t quite believe I actually did. All I’ve done since the second I woke up is silently curse the bastard who saved my life, and think of ways to make sure I succeed next time. For a while, I even considered talking, saying all the right things which I know they want to hear so they’ll discharge me. Then I could take myself away to a place where it would take someone days to find my body.

But that’s not why I talked to Peter today. I talked because I couldn’t help it. Peter asked the right questions, questions no one else has ever asked before. He treated me like a person instead of an illness and it caught me off guard, kicking my walls down. Maybe it won’t continue. Maybe the darkness will set in again and remind me it’s part of who I am, that it will never leave.

But for now…for now I feel a little…okay.

“Before I go,” Peter mutters, pulling an envelope out of the file he’s holding. “This is from Theo. Don’t open it if you’re not ready. It’s okay to not be ready. But if you do, and you want to talk about what’s inside, you know how to get hold of me.”

Nodding once, I take the envelope. “Okay,” I whisper, the word wobbly on my lips.

I run my thumb over the brown paper. There’s something small and hard inside. It intrigues me, but not enough to open it, so I tuck it under my pillow.

“Oh, one more thing,” he adds, spinning on his heels when he reaches the door. “If you want to listen to it you’ll need to check out your earphones and charger from the office.”

Right. There are rules here about any kind of cords, anything sharp, or anything small enough to be swallowed.

Now I’m even more scared to open it. Is it a phone? Has he recorded a message for me? I can’t handle that. Not yet. Hearing his voice would literally strangle me with shame.

Why can’t he just walk away? Can’t he see it’s for the best? That I’m not worth his pain?

Two minutes ago I was feeling okay. Now? Now I’m lying in a ball on my bed, tears seeping into my pillow, and cursing myself for not cutting deeper.

I’m a selfish, fucked-up bastard.

**********

Three days later…

I took my meds today. I’m not sure why. I’m still not convinced they’ll work but I downed them in one before I had chance to change my mind. After talking with my psychiatrist, he’s decided to treat me with something different this time. So this morning, I took my first ever dose of quetiapine, an anti-psychotic, which apparently helps long-term bipolar depression.

We’ll see.

My wrists are still bandaged, and they’ve stayed clean for twenty-four hours now so I assume the weeping has stopped. The scald on my hand is healing too; the blisters have burst, leaving loose white skin in their wake. I stare at it frequently, torturing myself, trying to force those feelings back to the surface, for no other reason than I’m fucked in the head.

My therapy is going well, I think. I’ve never told a professional about my suicide attempts as a teenager, or the depths of my self-harm before, but Peter manages to tease this kind of information out of me somehow. Usually by being a sarcastic arse. But I guess I can relate to a sarcastic arse better than a condescending twat who’s walked straight out of a textbook. It’s almost a battle of wills between us. I need to challenge him, raise the stakes in our bullshit-a-thon.