𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃

36 | do we have a deal?

"If it makes you feel better, you're not my type." He says as an attempt to lighten the mood and frankly it works. I laugh a little and he smiles lightly.

"Yeah, you're not my type either." I mutter.

I don't know why I'm so comfortable having this conversation with Sam. Maybe it's because he's the only one who knows about my diagnosis, but then again, it's not like I intended on telling him.

"Are you taking your meds?" He suddenly asks and I gulp.

"They drain me." I mutter.

"What the fuck Evelyn?"

"I have no choice!" I practically yell as I lift my body off the table. "I can't be constantly feeling like my body is underwater while trying to manage school and two jobs. I'm far behind when it comes to rent and I don't want to move to a smaller place because the apartment is all I have left of him. Not only that, I still need to figure out a way to make five grand in under a week otherwise I'm fucked. The days just aren't long enough!"

"You are making all kinds of wrong decisions here Evelyn and you know it."

"I-I just need more time." I say lamely. "If I had more time, I would be fine."

"Time doesn't do shit Ev." He snaps. "You need to get back on track and take those damn pills. Hell, even go back to therapy."

"Therapy is what got me here Sam." I deadpan.

Sam nervously fiddles and runs a hand through his hair. "Jesus, fuck-look, here's what's going to happen." He starts then gets up to face me. "I can only give you two grand from my savings and you're going to pay me back whenever you can."

Is he being serious right now?

"W-what?" I stammer.

"I'll give you the money on one condition." He states.

"And what's that?" I pipe.

He takes a deep breath, "You'll get your shit together and take your meds. You can't keep going like this."

Little does he know is that I'm used to it.

"Alright, I promise."

* * *

Moments later I find myself back into the security of my apartment, counting down the money I've gathered because of Sam's courtesy along with the money that I earned myself working at the coffee shop and the yoga studio. I organize the cash in stacks of hundreds before putting them in an empty shoe box that I dug out from my closet and as soon as I come to the conclusion that I'm nowhere near the amount of five thousand dollars, I fist my hair tightly until my scalp burns. My back is rested against the foot of the bed and I pull my legs close to my chest as I try to maintain my composure.

My cheeks flare up and my head is spinning at the thought of having to take up extra shifts during the week in order get my damn uncle off my back. Not only that, the landlord has started to give me a hard time in the course of the previous week and the only way for me to pay her was by borrowing money from my fucking neighbor who lives next door. If I don't find a roommate soon, I might as well pack my shit and move into the comfort of a cardboard box.

For fucks sake I borrowed money from two different people and yet I'm still not out of the woods when it concerns my medical bills. My uncle is going to make my life a whole more difficult if I don't pay him back next week. That fucking asshole had the audacity to blackmail by telling me that he will withdraw his name from my prescribed medication and replace it with my own if I don't show up with the money.

He's well aware of the stigma that is associated with people with mental illness and even though the stigma itself isn't limited to something simpler such as mental conditions, the response of the public towards a person with psychiatric illnesses unfortunately happens to be more negative. He's also aware of the discrimination towards people with mental illnesses and for a long time, I was reluctant to get the help that I needed. He knows that I am not comfortable with revealing that part of myself to the outside world, and when I was younger, I was foolish enough to believe that for once somebody actually wanted to help me.

The truth is, I knew I needed help. I knew that I wasn't stable and I knew that my behavior wasn't classified as 'normal'. I made the mistake to associate the feeling of being in control with isolation, but little did I know this only made matters worse. I could easily isolate myself from my peers, but it was far more challenging to avoid what was happening at home.

The plan was for me to get the help I needed so that when I finally went to college, I would finally become a new person. The last thing my uncle wanted was for me to leech off him just how my mother did, so I had to leave. I had to try to heal.

For my own sake and for those around me.

If I didn't become good, I would still be trapped in that house.

I wanted to heal because I didn't want to be labeled by my illness.

I didn't want people around me to see me as just my condition.

Because I am not my body, my mind nor my face.

I am not my poisonous thoughts, my tears nor my contagious smiles.

I am me.

I am the one who defines who I am, not my condition.

Is that too much to ask?