Broken

I don’t have what you could call hope yet, but a tiny part of me wants to believe it’s on its way. Theodore’s envelope remains unopened under my pillow. I haven’t been able to face it yet, but I’m getting there. Last night I briefly considered letting him see me when I realised I missed him.

God, I miss him.

But if I see him, I fear the guilt will overwhelm me and I’ll be right back where I started.

**********

One week later…

They removed my bandages yesterday. It’s set my progress back a little because now I can’t stop staring at the angry scars on my wrists. They’re not neat and tidy. They’re swollen, mangled and ugly. They won’t hide easily. I also can’t feel my left thumb. The worst part is, they’re a reminder. Seeing them takes me back to that day, to those feelings, and I’m overcome with hurt, anger, regret, and selfishness.

Some days I regret putting the people I love through what I have, other days I regret that I didn’t succeed.

I’m working on the latter.

A few hours later I’m sitting with Peter in my room. Some days he comes here, some days I see him in his office. Today, without the bandages, I feel more comfortable here.

“What do you feel when you look at them?”

Damn. I didn’t realise I was staring at my wrists again and I quickly tug my long sleeves over them.

“Shame. Failure.” I shrug.

“You could see them as a sign of strength.”

I blow out a laugh, saturated with sarcasm. “I gave up. I see weakness, not strength.”

“You survived those scars, James. You fought. You’re still fighting. You’ve made good progress this last week. Do you think you’d be where you are now if those scars weren’t there? Would you have sought help?”

Again, I shrug. The guy brings out my petulant teenager side.

“This isn’t over when you walk out of here. You have an illness, James. A lifelong, manageable illness. The mind is life’s most powerful tool…and also the most fragile. You need to take care of it. If you don’t want to go back to that dark place you’re going to do things right this time, do you hear me? You’re going to utilise your support system. You’re going to reach for that anchor whenever you need it.”

I nod, because I’m not sure I can agree out loud. “I…I don’t think I’m ready to leave yet,” I admit. The thought of facing the real world, my colleagues, my family… I can’t. What must they think of me? “I feel safe here.”

“You have a way to go before you’ll be ready for that.”

“Oh yes. I have to make something.” I laugh at the ridiculousness of it. I could make the best progress in the world but nobody gets out of here until they’ve socialised in the arts and crafts room upstairs. I swear, if you don’t feel like a headcase before you come in here, they’ll make damn sure you do before you leave. “I haven’t painted a picture since I was five years fucking old.”

“It’s more about interacting with people. We’ve talked about this.”

“Interacting with nutjobs? Perfect prep for the real world.”

“Hey, remember you’re one of those nutjobs before you judge,” he says with a smirk. That right there is one of the things I like most about Peter. He’s brutally honest and, when he’s not being a dick, he also makes a lot of sense.

“You’re not ready now,” he continues. “But carry on like this, taking your meds, talking, and you will be.”

“The meds make me feel like I’ve been chewing sand. I feel nauseous, too.”

“That’ll wear off. We’ve discussed that, too. Quit complaining.”

“You shouldn’t talk to a mental patient like that you know. You could tip me over the edge.”

“Then I would feel smug that you can’t do anything about it because we’re watching you too closely.” The smartarse actually winks at me.

“Thank you, Peter.”

He raises a curious eyebrow.

“For making this…easier. I’ve never had a therapist like you before. It feels like…like you ‘get it’.”

“Sure I do. I’ve read the textbooks.”

Shaking my head, I smile. “I think I’m going to open the envelope today.”

“Yeah? Do you want me to check out the earphones for you?”

“Before you do…is it his voice? Has he recorded a message for me?”

“I’ve no idea. He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Right,” I mumble, chuckling with nerves.

“So…earphones?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Back in five.”

With an anxious heart, I tease Theodore’s envelope out from under my pillow and smooth the creases that have formed around the edges with the pads of my fingers. I do nothing but stare at it until Peter returns, and by the time he hands me the earphones, I’m not sure I’m ready to open it after all.

“I’ll be around for another hour or so if you need me,” Peter says, patting my shoulder.

“Does he call often?” Once the words are out, I don’t even know why I’ve said it. I’m tormenting myself. Part of me wants Theodore to move on and forget about me, but the other part would be crushed if he did.

“He’s here every day.”

“Here? In person?”

Peter nods. “Come visiting time he sits right outside. Brings your clothes, toiletries.”

“That’s not Max?”

“No, but your brother rings every morning to see how you are.”

For days after I arrived here all I thought about was myself – how tired I was, how angry, lost. I refused to think about anyone else because it was too painful. Thinking about Theodore or my family had the power to weaken my resolve, my determination to escape, to die…so if they popped into my mind I would shove them right back out.

Knowing that they didn’t do the same, weighs me down with the most intense feeling of selfishness. It feels like I’m drowning just off shore but no one can see me struggling to stay afloat. I’ve been sinking my whole life, occasionally managing to bob to the surface until the current of misery drags me back under. I don’t want to fight for air anymore. I want to get out. Swim to shore. Live on dry land and accept the fact I might have to dip my toe back into the water every once in a while.