Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“What’s this?” she asked, frowning at the label.
“My meds. For my anxiety and depression,” I told her, watching as her head whipped over to me. “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Some of my healing was putting this house together, and getting a job that gave my life purpose again, but another part was the meds and therapy. So I know a thing or two about what bottling shit up does to you,” I told her, tossing the meds back into the bag.
“From the service, right?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I agreed, but didn’t elaborate. This wasn’t my time. I didn’t need the shoulder.
She did.
“There was one woman at the hospital who had PTSD from the service. She didn’t handle the thunderstorm we had one night very well.”
“Yeah, those can be rough for a lot of people who saw that sort of active duty. Was she your roommate?”
“No. But I had a great roommate. I don’t think I would have made it out of that place with my sanity intact if it weren’t for her. Am I allowed to talk about her?” she asked, frowning at me.
“That’s up to you. You didn’t sign some non-disclosure. But you don’t have to give details if you don’t want to.”
“She was so sweet. A lifer. That’s what she called herself sometimes. She’d been in and out of psych wards all her life. On the downslide… that was when she started getting some… bad thoughts,” she said, and I liked that she was trying not to give too many details. But it sounded like she had a bipolar roommate to me. “She thought that I’d really…” she said, waving down at her arm.
“You didn’t tell her otherwise?”
“You think she would have believed me? The scar was pretty damning.”
“Did you tell the doctors?”
“No,” she admitted. “I figured that saying I didn’t do it, when they were sure I did, was only going to make me look crazy, and that they would extend my stay.”
“That is, unfortunately, probably the case.”
“I just played it off as best I could. Put on my best not suicidal face. Because, well, I wasn’t. And I’ve never been. Not that I’m judging,” she rushed to add, looking over guilty.
“I know you’re not,” I agreed, my hand giving hers a reassuring squeeze. “You must have felt really fucking powerless in that place.”
To that, her eyes immediately went glassy, making her look straight ahead to try to hide it.
“You could say that,” she agreed, voice thick. “There were times that the whole experience was just… dehumanizing,” she added.
There was nothing private when you were locked up against your will. Strip searches and forced medication and people asking invasive questions and expecting answers.
Mental healthcare had come a long way from icepick lobotomies and freezing cold baths, but it still had a long way to go to get to a more humanizing standard of care.
“I really struggle with feeling like I have no control,” she admitted. “And I didn’t have any there. I couldn’t pick what time I went somewhere or if I could leave at all. It was just… horrible. And the crazy part is, I didn’t need it before, but I’m pretty sure I am going to need therapy now.”
“There’s no shame in that. It’s important to work through that shit, not tamp it down. And I get that it’s hard,” I added. “Especially for someone like you who feels like they have it all together, to ask for help. But once we’re sure it’s safe to, you should talk to someone about it. And, by then, we will hopefully know who it was, and have their asses locked up, so all that shit on your record will look a lot different.”
“That would be nice,” she admitted. “Cam got me creams for my arm. I’m dubious that they will work.”
“So, get a laser treatment. Or a tattoo.”
“Cam suggested a tattoo. Visible ones aren’t really my style.”
“Visible ones, huh?” I asked, smirking, and she heard the amusement in my voice, making her glance at me. “I feel like that means there are ones that aren’t visible.”
“There’s one,” she admitted. “We can call that teenage idiocy.”
“Nothing wrong with teenage idiocy. Mine once made me take mushrooms with my friends and trip fucking balls in the woods. The trees came alive and told me stories.”
To that, a laugh bubbled up and burst out of her.
“Sorry,” she said, still chuckling. “I’m sure that was terrifying, but it’s kind of funny. What kind of stories did they tell you?”
“They shit-talked the other tree species. Apparently, the Weeping Willows were the whiny, emos. And the Oaks thought they were better than everyone else. They also complained about the woodpeckers. Sawyer said he sobered up first and found me hugging a tree and assuring it that I would be a human scarecrow for it, so the birds wouldn’t peck at his bark anymore.”