Our love couldn't go wrong

Chapter Twenty-One :

Heads up for descriptions of/implied religious trauma.

By the time she's finished with her therapy session and driven herself home - no, not home, Shayne's place; she's just a guest - she is absolutely drained. Once she's in and curled up on the couch, she crashes.

It wasn't as though her therapy session was as bad as she was worried it would be. As a matter of fact, it was actually quite good (as far as therapy goes, anyway) and her counsellor seems like a nice enough person, so that helps matters. But the whole process of taking memories and dissecting them, being completely raw with your emotions and thoughts with a person you barely know, is so emotionally taxing. She's too tired to move, too shaken up to sleep.

So, she decides to wait until Shayne gets back. He'll want to ask how therapy went, anyway.

She lays there for what seems like hours just staring at the wall and going over the events of today again, overanalysing everything she said and did. Everything plays on repeat in her mind like a broken record. What if she came off as too much too soon? What if they think she's lying about any of it because the only words her mind supplied her with were 'I don't know' and 'uhhh, I think...maybe...I'm not too sure'. God, why can't she be good with words?

She used to be - way back when she was an angsty pre-teen obsessed with boys and relationships and fitting in. She used to write everything into her diary as though it was gospel, the next bible or some shit, as opposed to your standard girl drama. It embarrasses her when she looks back on it, but hell, it's made for some good content over the years. And looking back, she misses when life was that easy. She misses when her biggest concerns were coming up with killer comebacks to roast the asses of prepubescent boys in her grade who acted like dicks, or what she wore to school to get the attention of people she wanted to like her.

Maybe she should start journaling again.

The thought lingers for a few minutes, hands twitching slightly as all the words she wants to say or put down onto paper comes to mind. Her brain is whirring, clawing at her to let it all out, and she forces herself to stand up and grab a couple blank pieces of paper from the pile next to Shayne's printer. She's sure he won't mind.

Once she's sat back down, she leans forward so she can easily reach the coffee table in front of her, grabbing a pen off the top of a notebook. It takes a second for her to adjust her grip and lower her hand down, but the moment that the pen starts to touch the paper, it's like a whole other version of herself is unlocked. She loses herself in her thoughts. The words flow like the Colorado river she'd spent childhood summers at, familiar and comforting in a way she'd almost forgotten. Almost. Perhaps she could bring this to her next therapy session to use as a starting point, or to help her explain all of the things she wants to say and talk about but doesn't quite know how to.

Sometimes I feel so much that I feel nothing at all. But even when I feel nothing, I feel all of it completely. And yet, I'm never complete, I'm never whole. I feel fully but I never feel full.

When I was a kid, it used to feel like I'd explode with how much emotion I'd feel. But I put that down to growing up in a busy house with all of my siblings, never feeling as though I was heard or that I had my own space to be alone and breathe. It never changed, though. Even now, I can never describe it or express what is happening in my body and mind. It's just...a lot. I'm a lot.

I grew up not liking the person I was. I wanted to be someone else entirely, still do, which is why I like acting so much. For just a moment, I can forget myself and be someone else - someone who people like and want to be around, someone that makes people laugh instead of hurting them, someone who I can be proud of. I feel as though I don't have a purpose. I'm doing what I love with the people I love, I've found myself a family away from my own and...I'm still an outcast. I'm tired of wanting more.

Church told me that in life, all that we can ask for is all we have, that God provides us everything we could ever want or need and we should be grateful for his generosity. It's selfish of me to wish for more. It's sinful. But I've always been sinful, I've always been the devil's child. Maybe that's why I'm being punished.

God made man, and then man hurt me. But God made woman from man, so am I the one who hurt myself all along?

I've always been this way, always been this broken and lost. The bible says God makes no mistakes, but that must be a lie because he made me. I've spent my whole life trying to find my purpose, trying to find my place in the world and be a good child, a good girl, a good daughter to both my parents and to our Father who art in heaven, a good friend, sister, colleague...a good person. I want to be selfless and good and kind so bad, but I'm not. And I don't know how to fix myself. Jesus died for all our sins, but I still can't atone for mine.

How can anyone ever love me when God himself doesn't? How could he if he made me like this?

The sound of the door opening makes her jump, scrambling to put the pen down and turn her sheet of paper over. She's not embarrassed of her writing, per se, but she knows that she'd be ashamed if he read her thoughts. Lucky for her, Shayne seems too distracted to notice - lazily kicking off his sneakers in the hallway.

"Hey, how was work? Did you miss me?" She tries to keep her tone light and airy, but it comes off slightly forced and she cringes internally.

"Huh? Oh yeah, work was fine, just tiring. We didn't really end up doing much after you left..." Shayne trails off. She knows him too well, though, and she can hear that hint of uncertainty in his words - that sort of halter which usually either means he's lying, or he's holding something back. The voice in her head tells her it's a mix of the two. "How was therapy? If you want to talk about it, that is?"

"It was...good, I think? My therapist seems nice enough, we both grew up in the same sort of area so we talked about that for a bit...yeah, I think she might be able to help me. Which is good, I guess." She rambles, Shayne nodding approvingly as he lowers himself into the space on the couch next to her, putting his feet up onto the coffee table. She tuts, swatting his feet off playfully, but she freezes when he notices the paper and goes to reach for it. "I, um, I-I started writing something. Just a mind dump, you probably don't want to read that, it's nothing special, it's stupid, really."

He stops before he turns the paper over, holding his hands up in surrender as he leans back into his seat. "Hey, I won't read it if you don't want me to. You're allowed to have privacy, Courtney."

"Yeah, I know. I know, I just...yeah."

There's a split second of awkwardness before Shayne reaches for one of his books he'd left on the table, bookmark haphazardly sticking out of the page. He settles down, opening it up and starting to read as she watches for a moment before reaching for the pen and paper once more. She's not quite keen on the idea of writing in front of him, but it'll be nice to sketch something.

Maybe she can draw the house down by the river and imagine all those summers with her siblings. She can draw the sunset and the valley along the river where she'd sit and be alone in her own thoughts for those few precious hours. Her first reprieve.

They stay like that for just over an hour, in a comfortable silence and doing their own thing, before he puts his bookmark back in, flexing his limbs before moving to stand up. She continues to sketch, shading in the patio and roof - careful not to smudge it. "Right, I'm gonna get a start on dinner. Pasta sound okay, or do you want something else."

She hums in thought, not looking up from her drawing as she answers him. "Only if you do that cheesy garlic bread, again. I would die for your cheesy garlic bread."

He laughs heartily, "Alright, I'll make some just for you. What are you drawing? It looks nice."

The blush comes to her cheek and she lowers her head, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. "Remember when I told you about my great-grandmother's house in Colorado? I've been thinking about it a lot the past few days, the memories I have of me and my siblings and our childhoods..."

"Maybe we can book a rental out near there, go on a little break sometime? That might be nice." It sounds like a perfect idea but she tries to hide that thought. He's done so much for her, already, she doesn't want him to keep going out of his way for her sake. He really is too good.

"Maybe someday."