Broken (31 page)

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.

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.

I want…I want to
fight
.

When I look up, Peter is gone, leaving me alone with whatever Theodore wants to tell me. Am I ready to hear it? I’m not sure, but I owe it to him to try.

Sliding my finger under the tab, I break the seal on the envelope and pluck out an iPod,
my
iPod I think, and a letter. Chewing my bottom lip, I suck in what feels like my first breath in hours and start to read.

James,

You’re a stupid fucking idiot and I’m mad with you…but I also love you. I  LOVE YOU. I don’t understand what’s going on in your head. I’ve tried, but no, I don’t get it. But I’m here. I can’t understand what you’re going thorough but know I’ll be by your side while you do. Know that I’m close, even if you don’t want me to be. I’m not going anywhere. Unfortunately for you, you’re not the boss here, so you’re just going to have to suck it up.

I’m forced to look up for a moment, blinking the tears away. If I close my eyes I can see the expression on his face as he wrote that last sentence. He’s cute when he tries to be authoritative.

I hope you’re not being too much of an arse to the nurses. I can imagine them talking about what a pompous twat you are in the staff room. At least I hope they are. If you’re pissing them off it means you’re coming back to me. I’m sure they can handle you. I’ve met your therapist. He’s certainly unique, I’ll give him that. He seems as stubborn as you, which is good. You need someone who won’t stand for your bullshit.

I miss your bullshit, James. I miss your attitude. I miss the feel of your skin. I miss the way your jaw ticks when someone, usually me, annoys you. I even miss your freckle.

I miss you.

I’m staying in your apartment. I hope you don’t mind. Not that I care if you do…I’m not leaving. I can be a stubborn bastard too. I learned from the best. It’s not very tidy I’m afraid. Right now there’s two day old, half-eaten Chinese food all over your coffee table. Oh and the fridge is filled with cheap food instead of your fancy Sainsbury’s shit. If you want to change that you better hurry up and get better so you can come home.

Okay, I’ve rambled long enough. I’m putting your iPod in the envelope. You must be missing your music. I’ve not touched your songs but you’ll find a playlist with just three songs on it. They’re songs that say everything I want to tell you, but I can’t because you’re being a dickface.

You’ll be Okay by A Great Big World – I need you to listen to every single lyric and BELIEVE them.

Here Without You by 3 Doors Down – I’m here. I’m with you.

Maybe Tomorrow by the Stereophonics – Just…because.

Get better, James. Choose to keep going. Choose US. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.

Theodore

PS: The halogen lights in your kitchen have blown and I don’t know how to get them out to replace them.

When I finish reading there’s a smile etched onto my lips. A real, genuine smile that I can feel tugging at the skin around my eyes. Lying down, I roll onto my side and read the whole thing again, then I twist my earphones into my ears and scroll for the playlist he’s created. I laugh when I find the playlist titled
Get the Fuck Better
. I start from the bottom because
You’ll be Okay
is the only song I’m not familiar with. I also think it might be the hardest to listen to.

Maybe Tomorrow
sparks memories that keep the smile on my face. I’m taken back to the night I first saw him, belting it out of tune, to playing it in my car for no other reason than I wanted to see him squirm. I was happy in those moments. I
have
known happiness. My brain has been lying to me and I believed it so easily.

When
Here Without You
dances into my ears I start to sink again, but I fight it. I kick and struggle, and vow to make it to shore so I can be with him. Right now, I don’t want to be here without
him
, either.