Love on the Scale

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It was my first day back at home. I still felt like a doll trapped inside the memory of being alive. It was the beginning of a new season, another cast-off leaf fell off a tree and daydreamed about drowning, the unusual seasonal summer haze hung with heavy humidity, giving a plastic sensation to the start of my new world.

My room was an indoor flower sanctuary; everyone from the Model House had sent a beautiful bunch with a card attached. And chocolates too. Cards from people I didn't even know were calling me friend: "Get well, my friend," "We miss you, come back soon, beautiful friend," "We love you, precious friend," "Be strong, friend." Lilian had sent the largest bouquet, a bunch of cheerful yellow roses with an apologetic card attached. She had even placed a personal call, requesting that I return to work when I felt strong enough to do so. She had called me "an indispensable part of the crew". It was as if the whole world had finally taken notice of me, yet, this wasn't the way I wanted everyone to remember me: the sad, fat girl who had left a blood trail of empty life, forced from my veins.

Neil had not forgotten me either. He had sent me a small, sacred envelope, without a doubt filled with his emotions, along with a teddy bear. I didn't touch any of it. And James hadn't allowed me to stay at home alone. Brandi was my babysitter, following me around like a poodle.

"Look, Brandi." I said, exasperated. "I appreciate this level of commitment, but asking me to leave the bathroom door open... I just don't know you that well."

I had meant it to be taken as serious, but she broke out in a fit of giggles, and I couldn't help but start laughing too. It was the first bit of sunshine in over a week.

"You're really pretty, Chris... you know, when you smile."

I could hear the sincerity in her voice, but I wasn't ready to start the upward climb towards the light just yet.

"Look, Brandi." I snapped. "Just stop saying that! I can't stand it when you people lie to me to try make me feel better." I growled, louder, irritated, "Just leave me alone. You're wasting your day hanging out with a lousy loser like me! Loooooser! That's me." I caught a glimpse of her shock and hurt before I slammed the door in her face. There was a sullen silence, and then I heard her slide down the bathroom door and sit on the floor.

"Look, Chris. I know you're in a bad place and that you're getting what little energy you have from hurting those close to you." After a pause, she added, whispering into the door, "I'm just going to hang out here until you're done."

I was left alone with only the sound of water filling the bath. And memories of Neil. I tried my best to push them aside, but the more I fought with them, the stronger they fought back. My heart was broken and would never heal again. I missed him so darn much. I longed to lie in his safe arms, my head on his chest, longed to hear the steady beat of his heart. He had given his all to me, and I had thrown it back at him as if it was a worthless trinket. I was eighteen, supposed to be part of the grown-up world, and I had felt it the easiest thing, unzipping my veins, throwing my life away. Every minute and hour I was experiencing the saddest kind of sad. It was a sad that tried not to be sad; the sad that tried to bite its lip and not cry or smile. How could I explain these emotions to anyone? How could anyone expect me to share the emptiness and black hole I had become.?

I climbed into the bath and put my head under the water, waiting for all the sounds to fall away. But the water only made them louder. It was a complete immersion of myself. Apathetic, witless and fearful. Where on earth did I go from here? I came up for air. The doctor had spoken to me on the second last day of my stay in the hospital: "When you are fighting a mental illness, which is what you have, Chris - it is like fighting a silent battle. No one sees just how hard you're constantly having to fight. No one else knows the pain and inner turmoil like you do. You should be proud of yourself, even when you feel like you're failing. I think anyone fighting to save their life deserves a Medal of Honor, because Chris, that fight is real and it's more difficult than most people realize." For a moment he was quiet, and then he took my hand and said, "Don't die denying your wounds, girl. I want you to start attending a depression support group." He took a small card out of his breast pocket, putting it into my hand and closing my fingers around it. "There's a phone number on there. The girl who runs the group's name is Joanna." He left. I opened my hand and looked down at the card. Along with a name and number, he had scribbled, "Chris, your beauty is now up to you."