She was quiet, basically the complete opposite of me, but like on some soul-deep level, little Simone knew—even if she didn’t know at the time—that Lydia was my soulmate. My platonic soulmate in this world. We did everything together. As different as we were from each other, we moved exactly the same. We were always in sync. She became the sister I never had. Maybe the only sister I wassupposedto have.
Life happened like a storm to her. One that never went away, one that hovered, always waiting to strike again with its lightning. Between her parents’ death, her sister’s death, the bullying at school, being in and out of foster homes, the abuse with Eli, the betrayal with Katie, the onslaught of emotions that took her under once we got to college, it all kept chipping away at her little by little. Most of those things on their own would take someone out, yet life wanted to keep handing her more and more and more.
I wanted to be her seat belt and her oxygen and her escape route…but no matter how much I tried, no matter how many times I picked her up and begged her to keep going, I couldn’t save her…I couldn’t take her away from the thing that was killing her the most…her own mind.
College was supposed tobe our reset. A new life, new city, same us. I thought we’d be closer than ever, and I’d get her out of her shell and out of the dark for good. Instead, I watched her learn how to disappear in plain sight—parties, bottles, flings that left her hollow. At first, I told myself it was normal—everybody does dumb for a season. But when I found out about the drugs…it broke my heart completely. A part of her always lived in me, and when she broke, I broke.
I didn’t want her to end up like her sister—in the ground because of pills, because she was trying to find an escape that she couldn’t come back from.
Staring at her now, in this hospital bed, while she looks so peaceful, so far away from the pain. I can’t help but want to drag her out of that bliss she’s temporarily in. Beg for her to come back to me. A part of my heart is lying in that bed with her.
God, please bring her back to me. I promise I’ll take care of her, I’ll get her the help, I’ll make sure she gets better. Just please don’t take her. She still has too much to do, too much to come back from. This can’t be it for her. Her story doesn’t get to end like this. You can’t let her go through everything she’s gone through and not let her experience the redemption she deserves. I’m begging you. I just want to see her happy. I want to experience the version of Lydia in this lifetime that isn’t in constant pain, the healed version, the version that gets to experience beautiful love that makes her feel safe. I want to watch her find her purpose in life. She’s too perfect of a soul to be wasted and put into the ground.
I reach down, squeezing her hand, pretending I can feel her squeeze it back. Lani wraps her arms around me and presses her head on my shoulder.
“She’s coming back,” she whispers.
I let the tears fall, hoping she’s right.
55
Lydia
The room smelled like disinfectant when I took in a deep breath as I tried to open my eyes, tape pulled at the inside of my elbow, and something hissed softly near my head—a nasal cannula pushing air into my nose, telling me to keep breathing, like I hadn’t just tried to tell my body we were done.
The plan wasn’t to be saved. It wasn’t to create some sad mess of a redemption story. I wanted to fucking die. And I’m pissed off that someone dragged me back to this place. To the one place I’ve never known real peace in.I was just looking for peace, damn.
That anger seemed to evaporate on the spot as soon as I looked over and saw Simone curled up on a small chair beside me, asleep. Seeing how much of a ghost of herself she was.I did that to her…again.I don’t want to keep doing that to her.
* * *
Time dragged for days after that. Nurses kept coming in and out, adjusting the curtains, soothing me back down, trying to keep me comfortable, checking every vital, and giving me meds to make what I was feeling easier—not possible.
Then the storm started in my bones. No one warns you how loud withdrawals are. Well, maybe they do, just…no one ever listens or believes them until they’re the ones going through it—sweating like you have a fever that won’t break, while being covered in goosebumps and shivering from also being cold, pupils too wide, nose running, every movement feeling worse than the one before, legs that wouldn’t stop twitching, feeling like they were short-circuiting. My back would hurt so badly, then my hips, then my teeth. My stomach flipped itself inside out until a nurse had to bring me one of those gray basins, and I threw up too many times to count. She pressed a cold cloth to the back of my neck and told me to breathe with her like she’d done this a million times, seen a million cases just like mine.
They kept asking for a number—pain, nausea, anxiety, craving. They’re all a ten.Everythingis a fucking ten.
Everything inside me is constantly screamingLeave me alone, andPlease don’t gosimultaneously.
They have me on the bare minimum amount of medication, nothing too strong for the little druggie who tried to kill herself—something for the nausea that finally turned the volume down, clonidine to keep my heart from running out of the room, and only ibuprofen for the crawl inside my bones. The psych NP offered me buprenorphine, and I said no at first because I wanted to hurt. Then, after a night of fire crawling under my skin and my legs kicking the sheet into knots, I begged them to give it to me. The pain got quieter, and I cried because the relief didn’t feel earned.
Eating was a chore. Just a bunch of broth, crackers, and popsicles that tasted like hospital and a childhood I didn’t get to experience. They kept making me sit up for all of it. “Position is medicine,” my nurse kept saying, pulling on little grippy socks to my feet because I keep flinging the blanket away when I’m irritated and feeling overwhelmed.
People with clipboards rotated through the room like a carousel. The social worker kept saying everything so slowly, like she knew my brain was syrup. “Who can you text at two a.m.?” she asked, pen hovering over her notes. “Who is safe?”Simone, Lani, Sarah…I almost said my sister’s name, but tucked it back into my mouth.
A psych resident asked me if I still wanted to die. I said,“I don’t know, I guess not, doesn’t seem like the world wants me gone yet.”That felt like the closest thing to the truth.
A chaplain asked if I wanted prayer. I said no, and then did it myself later anyway—“If you’re real, tell these people to leave me alone. I’m tired.”
Simone and Lani came every day, trading shifts like parents with a newborn. Ifeelas useless as a newborn. Lani read me memes in a dead serious tone until something like a smile twitched on my mouth. Simone learned the nurse’s schedule and took pictures of the whiteboard and bullied me into sipping on my water. Sometimes I snapped at them for breathing too loudly. Sometimes I apologized right after. Sometimes the apology had to wait because my body was busy trying to climb out of itself. They always understood, and I hated that they understood. I hated that they were so patient with me. I didn’t deserve their patience.
Sarah and Mark arrived the night after I was admitted. They came straight to the hospital, still in work clothes, eyes glassy and overly tired. When Sarah saw me, she just…folded. Quiet crying, hands over her mouth like she was trying to hold the sound in. Mark kept his arm around her, jaw working, the way men try to hold back their feelings to keep everyone else upright. They don’t have anyone to lean on because they’re always the one people are leaning on.
They all just hovered mostly, trying to do whatever they could to help, whatever they could to pass the time, whatever they could to pretend the elephant in theroom…wasn’t still in the room. No one had talked about what happened. No one has wanted to say the words out loud—overdose, suicide attempt, drug addiction, withdrawal. All the monsters were still standing in my closet, even though the door was wide open, and we were all staring at them as they stared back. No one wanted to acknowledge them.
On the fifth day, when my head wasn’t pounding out of my skull 24/7, and my stomach wasn’t in knots anymore, I finally found the courage to try to ease into the conversation we all needed to have.
“So…who, um, found me?”
