Page 56 of Caged in Flames

Many, many discussions and arguments later, we both decided that treatment was for the best. It wasn’t an easy decision by any means. But even the smallest hope that maybe I could find a way to be normal was too tempting to pass up.

Surprisingly, my dad was more than happy to foot the bill for the hospital and treatment. I guess he grew a partial conscience. Not that he attended any of the sessions he was invited to, but in a way, I think it was best that I learned that nothing was ever going to bring that man back into my life.

Not even when faced with the possibility that I could have been gone forever did he step up.

I blow out a frustrated breath. Clearly, sleep isn't happening again any time soon. Getting out of bed, I go and grab my yoga mat from the closet. I haven't been using it as much with how busy school has been. I guess that's why Dr. Grace preaches prioritization so much. If you don't make time, you fall behind.

Falling behind with mental health isn't an option, but right now I don't have any extra energy to care.

I move through the poses slowly, but with precision. After I've gone through everything suggested for relaxation, I can still feel my skin crawling with haunting emotions from that nightmare. Tossing the mat back in my closet, I throw myself back into bed.

It takes hours, but eventually I've re-lived everything over and over to the point where my body is too tired to keep repeating it. As I drift off, I can still see the blue and red lights.

This time when I wake, my whole body feels the exhaustion of a restless night. The last few weeks have been substantially high for me.

Developing a friendship with Jane, whatever is happening between me and Gunner, and the festival all had my spirits up.

For fuck’s sake, I actually laughed at something Charlie fucking Westbrook did.

There’s always a problem with something going up. It must come down. Law of physics is fucking annoying when it applies to my moods.

By universal rule, Mondays are the worst day of the week. This Monday is something beyond the typical shitty day. It’s the beginning of a low for me. I’m currently wrapped up in my blankets wishing the real world could wait just one more day.

I’ve spent years fighting this darkness in my head. This mental demon that slinks through my body like sludge. It takes every good thing, every bit of happiness, and it runs right over it. The warmth washing over my skin these last few weeks is a stark contrast to the coolness seeping through my veins now.

Tucking myself further into the blanket, I welcome the blank gloomy backdrop that matches my mood.

It reminds me that I’m better off being nothing. I’m worth nothing. A thousand people could tell me my value and it wouldn’t matter. None of those voices are louder than the one inside my head. The one cloaked in black clouds.

The one that shouts at me that I will never be good enough.

I’ll never be worth sticking around for.

Always someone’s problem.

I just want to hide away from it. I’ve seen the signs for days. The loss of appetite. The irritability when a pet peeve is triggered. I hate how frustrated I get with my classmates for the noises they make, but when that bonehead Brett wouldn’t stop tapping his pencil against his desk in History, I wanted to stab him with it. It was so hard to focus with that awful noise getting louder and louder.

I poke my head back out of my cocoon of depression. Flipping to one side, I shove the pillow over my head. Right now, I want to only exist in this bubble. I barely want to exist at all.

My fingers move over the scars along my arms, and gently trace the lines on my legs. Little bumps reminding me that pain used to be the only way to feel anything once I entered this void. After the rusted razor in the bathtub incident….

That kind of release isn't an option. Not anymore. I may not have the will to move out of my bed, but I'm strong enough to avoid the temptation of self-harm. This time. Who knows how long it will take before I succumb to that, too?

Like a bird with infected feathers, too sick to fly, too scared to try.

The right move is to reach out for help, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

I don’t want to bother my mom with this. It will be another burden for her to shelter on behalf of her broken kid.

Fuck.

I could call and make an emergency appointment with Dr. Grace, but even though I know she’s amazing, medical advice isn’t what I want.

I’m tired of feeling like my entire being is made up of jagged pieces that fall apart for no reason, only to be explained as a chemical imbalance.

Take the medicine, Nix. Talk about your feelings, Nix. You’ll get through this, Nix.

I shouldn’t fucking have to. I don’t want to have to talk about things. I don’t want to swallow another little white pill.

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