Page 53 of Breathe Again

My dad had been gone for over ten years. It wasn’t near any kind of anniversary, holiday, or birthday. She just didn’t want to bother. I wondered if she secretly enjoyed it when I struggled or failed and proved her opinion of me correct.

I wouldn’t ask her for anything again. Willa was one hundred percent correct: mom was self-centered. Honestly? I had enough stress in my life and it was long past time to put a bit of space between us. I didn’t need the stress of dealing with her constant drama, her snide comments, and covert criticisms.

I looked at Olivia. There was no way. She was not going out today.

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.

Of course. The idea hit me at once. It was an easy solution, but it was hard to think with the amount of brain fog I was dealing with.

“Hey, baby. Should we treat ourselves and order pizza?”

She swiveled her head to look at me. “With garlic sticks?”

“Of course!”

“Yay!” She gave a tiny cheer, a tiny cheer that made the whole fiasco with my mother worth it.

After our pizza, which somehow served as a magical reset button, Olivia sat down beside me to watch a movie and draw on her iPad.

I pulled out the printed pages I wanted to give to Zale. It looked like the redacted version of a high security government document. I covered up the scary parts, the shameful bits, and what remained were the bare bones of what I wanted him to know, though it was far from everything he needed to know.

I’d never kept anything back from him, I’d always been honest and forthcoming, I despised lies, and this felt like one. Albeit a lie of omission, it was still a lie. As much as I abhorred lying, I’d rather lie than tell him the suicide rate. I’d rather lie than explain my rage. I’d rather lie than court his revulsion.

It explained the pain. I wanted him to know about the pain, how much I hurt inside. It was validating to read how psychologically painful doctors consider BPD to be.

It outlined the coping mechanisms, like craving sex. I wanted him to understand how much I needed it and needed him.

It glossed over the self-harm. I didn’t want him to know this about me more than he already did, more than he’d already seen on occasion.

I was ready to give him an out. He shouldn’t have to deal with this monster in me, the monster that was me. Part of me almost hoped he would take it and take Olivia away from my influence. I was terrified of hurting her with my moods and my fears, the way my mom hurt me.

I googled to see if there were any movies that illustrate borderline personality disorder. The first that came up was the bunny boiler. I’d hoped for more than that one.

Huh.

I decided to take movies off the list of possible presentation tools.

Tonight, I decided I’d tell him.

Once Olivia settled into bed, I approached him with my papers. He lounged on the couch, his long body slouched into the cushions, his long legs stretched out to the floor, ankles crossed. He saw me out of the corner of his eye and opened his arm for me to settle in beside him and tucked me under his arm. His hand rested on my hip, and he stroked me through my clothes.

“Zee? Can we talk?”

He shifted his sleepy gaze from the tv to lock eyes with me. “Sure, baby. What’s up?”

“Remember I told you I was having some emotional difficulties and I was going to call the doctor?”

His gaze sharpened on me. “Did you?”

“I did.” I nodded, looking down. “A while back. She referred me to a psychiatrist. I went.”

He sat up straighter, pulling me with him. “And?”

“So…” I tried to push away to sit up and put a bit of space between us, but he wrapped his hand around my hip and held me firmly against him. I settled back in and continued. “He told me I had Persistent Depressive Disorder as well as something worse, some of which I’m not comfortable talking about yet, but I’ve collected some of the information and printed it out for you.”

“Okay...” at ‘something worse’ his brows snapped together, and concern carved a deep line between his brows.

He held his hand out for the papers I held in mine. My man was a man of few words and subtle facial expression, but firm beliefs and opinions. After all the years we’d been together, I had learned to read his face. The tightening of his jaw, the expression in his eyes, the crinkle, or lack thereof, at the corners of his eyes, the lines around his mouth, a twitch of his lips, all this I could read, but he gave nothing away while he read.

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