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Good Girl(53)

By:Willow Winters

“We can take a break if you need.” I hear Dr. Mae pull another tissue out of the box and I roll my eyes. I need to woman up and stop crying. I know it doesn’t do anything to help.

I reach for the tissue and try to calm my ass down.

“Let’s switch gears,” she says, as she picks up her pen to scribble something in the tiny pad on her lap.

In my head I call her the shrink, even though Doctor Amelia Mae doesn’t like to be called that. It doesn’t matter what I call her, she’s a doctor for people with mental issues. For the crazies. For me.

I feel comfortable in her office. She has a no shoe policy. It makes me feel more relaxed. I flex my toes into the plush carpet beneath my feet. My nose scrunches as I wonder how many other people do that. I pull up my legs to sit cross-legged on the leather couch. It’s a pretty dove grey and has a modern feel. Everything in the office looks modern and clean. And open. It has a very airy vibe. It makes me feel comfortable enough to talk at least. And I’m doing my best to do just that.

I fucking snapped. Out of nowhere. Well, that’s not true. I had triggers, and I did nothing about them. But I snapped, and I didn’t come to until Kane’s arms were around me.

If he hadn’t come to me...If he hadn’t seen me leave...

I don’t like to think of it. But I’m fairly certain I would’ve done it. I had the blade to my wrist. I remember thinking, just one quick move and it’s all over. But then I thought, I should just impale myself through the chest. It would be quicker.

Thank God that Kane grabbed me just then. He saved me. Again.

Dr. Mae pushes the thin, metal frame of her glasses higher up on her nose, quickly reading through her notes before looking up at me. “It’s been a week of big changes. How are you feeling?”

It’s been weeks of big changes, but I don’t correct her. That’d just be bitchy of me. This week seems just like the last one. Empty and boring.

“These meds are much better.” I start off with a positive. And it’s true. Whatever she has me on now is a shit-ton better than the first cocktail. It’s been two weeks since I left Kane to try and deal with my shit. I’m blaming the fucking meds on how god damned depressed I 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?”