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“Get the hell out of here!” she yelled hoarsely.
I stood and walked to the door. “I’m going. Please take care of yourself.”
I was too upset to acknowledge Silas and Elle as I stormed out of the hospital and went straight for the airport.
Part Four
Fifty-Two
Cee
“Tell me why you took the pills,” the therapist asked. She sat in the chair across from me with her hair in a perfect French twist and Grey’s Anatomy scrubs.
I kinda hated her.
“I told you, because I wanted to end the nightmare.” I played with a stray thread on my shirt. I used to look at the bare, windowless walls, but that got boring after our first session.
“What nightmare?”
This question annoyed me. I was almost positive we’d had this conversation before. Then again, since waking up in the hospital a few days ago, I’d spoken with many people. It was hard to remember what I had said to whom.
Except Sergio. One of my only clear memories from the last month was telling him I hated him and I wanted him to leave me alone.
To his credit, he has. I haven’t heard from him since that day. My sister, on the other hand, checks in as often as the psychiatric hospital will let her.
“My boyfriend died. My son was taken away. I was drowning. I just wasn’t strong enough to keep going.”
“Then how do you explain being here today?”
“Medical intervention,” I snapped. “And a very tenacious best friend,” I added with less venom.
“Walk me through what’s been happening.”
I shrugged. “I only remember bits and pieces. I remember waking up next to Eli and he was dead. Everything after that is just blurry. Every time I tried to focus on the present, I just saw him dead in our bed.”
“How long ago did he die?”
“I don’t know, like a month, I guess? Time isn’t really something I’m keeping up with.”
“Tell me about the parts you do remember.”
“My baby was taken to live with his father after Eli died. My sister made me go on tour with the band because she didn’t want me to be alone. Just general situations, really. Like blips.” Fucking Serge. Repeatedly. “I was angry and devastated, and I’m sure I was an asshole. I just remember pain. My whole body hurt. It felt like I was made of concrete and trying to run a marathon.”
“Do you remember how you ended up in the hospital?”
“I hear I swallowed a fistful of Xanax in a hotel bathroom.” I remember his terrified voice. The way he clung to me, begging me not to die through his own tears.
“Who found you?”
I knew this woman knew these answers. “I was staying in the hotel with my friend Sergio.”
“Right. And you’ve mentioned you don’t want to see or talk to him when we allow you visitors. Why is that?”
“Shame. Guilt.”
The therapist continued to ask me questions about that day. They all seemed to be the same question dressed in different outfits. My answers remained the same. I was drowning, and I tried to die. When I was unsuccessful, I felt even worse because I was still alive without Eli, and now I had the guilt of Sergio having to see me like that.
After individual therapy, there was group therapy. And then ‘quiet’ time. Quiet time was the worst because all I could do was sit in my misery.
