27. Chapter 27
Chapter 27
Mira
I regretted taking the Ambien. It was a supremely stupid thing to do. After everything I'd survived, I'd let Beau drive me to this? I'd let my parents push me into something I hadn't even done while going through hell in their house? Still, part of me knew it wouldn't have been the worst thing if the beat cop who found me—car door unlocked—hadn't gotten there in time to feel the faint flutter of my pulse.
Needless to say, I was conflicted.
The only consolation was that I didn't feel any pain—physically or emotionally. There was nothing, not even the strange churning in my stomach I'd felt in the ICU, which the doctor had said was from having my stomach pumped.
I'd also been told that it had been touch and go for a while—my heart had stopped after I stopped breathing, and they had to perform CPR, and put me on a ventilator to bring me back.
I'd woken up in a hospital room, the faint beeping of machines the only sign I was still alive. For the first day, they kept me in the ICU, monitoring my vitals. I was too groggy to feel anything but the cold of the sheets and the itch of the IV in my arm.
By the second night, they moved me to the psych ward. The room was bare—no sharp edges, no cords, no privacy. The lights were always on, at least dimly, and I could hear the nurse's shoes squeaking down the hall every fifteen minutes, checking on me. I tried not to think about why I was there. Tried not to think about much of anything at all.
They told me I had to be under observation for seventy-two hours. Apparently, those were the rules. And to make it worse, a therapist would come by to talk to me.
The white walls of my room felt sterile, almost too clean. The smell of antiseptic lingered in the air, while the constant beeping of machines, and the clatter of gurneys and wheelchairs outside my door were my only companions. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, visually tracing the faint outlines of the tiles, one after another, a quiet mental exercise to pass the time.
My body felt heavy, but my mind? My mind was empty. Not numb. Just hollow, like there was nothing left inside of me for me to feel.
The seventy-two-hour watch felt unnecessary, pointless. There were nurses who came in every now and then. A woman with round, concerned eyes asked me if I wanted visitors during the scheduled visiting hours— no , thank you , I had answered. I didn't care who wanted to see me. It didn't matter who it was. I was not interested. I was fine here. I wasn't hurting anymore. I wasn't anything .
I sat up when there was a knock on my door.
I finally said, " Come in, " when the knock became persistent.
I knew it was my therapist. I didn't want to see them, either.
A woman walked in, and introduced herself to me.
Dr. Monica Ryan was the therapist assigned to me. I continued to sit on the bed while she sat across from me in a plastic chair. Her glasses were perched on the edge of her nose, her eyes watched me like she was searching for a crack.
Sorry, darlin', I'm all out of cracks.
"How are you feeling today, Mira?" she asked, her voice soft, the kind of voice therapists probably used when they thought they were speaking to a crazy person. I was, after all, in the psych ward, so it was obvious that I was nuts, though that probably wasn't a technical term doctors used.
"I feel fine." It wasn't a lie. Fine was the best word I had. I wasn't hurt. I wasn't broken. I was just here. Existing .
Dr. Ryan crossed one leg over the other, studying me. I could see her trying to dissect the layers beneath my calm. The problem was, there were no layers left to cut through. Everything had burned out.
"Do you want to tell me what's going on with your life?
I chuckled humorlessly. "Apparently, I took too much of the Ambien prescribed for my sister, and ended up in the ER, and then the ICU, and now here."
Her face remained calm, somber. "You want to tell me why you took the Ambien?"
I didn't have an answer, at least not a clear one. "It seemed like the right thing to do at the time."
"And now?"
I closed my eyes and thought again about how alone I was—and how I had lost everything that mattered to me; maybe even myself.
Stop the pity party, Mira. It's not attractive, and no one cares. No one has ever cared. Move on.
"I don't know," I replied softly. "I regret taking the Ambien…you know, trying to kill myself, but…." I trailed away, wondering why I was speaking with this woman. Maybe it was because I was bored, sitting here, hour after hour, with nothing to do. Or perhaps, I just wanted to talk about what had happened, process it, which was not a bad thing.
"But?" she prompted.
"But I feel like it wouldn't have been a bad thing if I'd died."
"You told me you're fine. Can you tell me what that means to you?"
This question was easy. I shifted in the hospital bed, pushing the thin blanket off my lap. "It means I don't hurt anymore. Isn't that what you people want? For the pain to stop?" My voice was flat, emotionless.
"What was hurting, Mira? Where was it hurting?"
I didn't see pity in her eyes as I had with the nurses—and even my doctor in the ICU. I liked that about her; it made me feel more comfortable with her.
I put a hand to my heart, and then scoffed at myself. "I'm being melodramatic."
"Maybe, maybe not. Let's not worry about labeling how you're being, and just tell me what you feel or think. No judgment."
Objectively speaking, this woman was hired to assess my mental health—she had no sides to take. She didn't hate me or like me—I was merely a patient. There was relief in that.
"My heart hurts."
"Someone hurt you?"
I wished I could cry, I thought suddenly. Crying would be good right now because I felt like I was choking inside. So, maybe not as empty and without feeling as I'd thought.
"I came to Savannah with my niece," I began, and then told her about Pari and Beau. Just the basics. No details.
"About your parents, why—"
"Not talking about them." I had boundaries, and that was one I wasn't going to cross. I had the rest of my life to live, and after the universe gave me a reprieve for my stupidity, I wasn't about to dig up my childhood again. I'd already tried, and no one believed me. Some days, I didn't even believe it myself.
"Why?"
"Just not."
Dr. Ryan leaned forward a little. "Do you still want to hurt yourself?"
"No," I answered automatically. "I just need to find a job, make some money, and then get the hell out of Savannah."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're planning to leave Savannah?"
"Why would I stay?" I asked, as though the answer was obvious. "There's nothing here for me. I need to go somewhere else, somewhere far. I'll work, save up. That's what matters now."
"What about Pari?" she asked, her voice gentle, like she was trying to sneak that question in quietly, without upsetting me.
Her name stirred something inside me, deep, deep, deep underneath the fog. But I convinced myself it was just indigestion. I was feeling nothing . It was better, safer to block myself from the world—then no one could hurt me. I wouldn't think about Beau. I wouldn't miss hugging my baby girl. I didn't deserve her. I'd made a mess of everything, and on top of that, I'd tried to commit suicide. That didn't exactly scream good mental health , and no one should trust me with the responsibility of a child. In fact, Asha should never have in the first place.
"It's better if I never see her again," I said flatly. "She's better off without me. I wasn't a good parent to her. I never should've been in her life at all. This is how it should've always been."
Dr. Ryan was silent for a moment, watching me patiently.
"She must miss you if she wants to hear you sing her to sleep, Mira," the doctor said gently.
"Kids are resilient. She'll forget me in no time."
"Were you resilient as a child?"
My shoulders stiffened. "Yeah. I was. But Pari is protected, okay. Nothing bad is ever going to happen to her. Beau won't let that happen."
"But he let something bad happen to you," she pointed out.
"I deserved it."
"Why?"
I shrugged. "I'm…you know… less . He comes from a wealthy family. He has an MBA. His family…they're all educated. I only finished high school. I worked as a short-order cook. I'm twenty-two and already a complete failure at life. I was dreaming dreams that were too big."
"Mira, falling in love with a man is not dreaming too big," she said to me, "and you deserve your dreams. You deserve love."
"Do I?"
"Yes."
"Then why don't I ever get it?" I asked wearily. "See, I always cared about people. I was there for Asha, for Pari…I've always been there for others, but no one has been there for me . I've been trying to hold on to people by doing everything for them because I thought, if I did, if I loved hard enough, I would matter to someone. But that was a mistake."
"What if I told you that several people have been hounding me for updates about you?"
I blinked. "You can't talk to my parents."
"I'm not talking about your parents. I'm talking about Beau and your friend Nova, and—"
"You can't say anything to them, either," I snapped.
"Of course not. What we talk about is between you and me. But what I'm trying to tell you is that people do care about you. They were in the waiting room of the ICU night and day, begging to see you."
I felt guilty that Beau or Nova had spent their nights in the hospital because of me.
That was their choice, not yours. Snap out of it, Mira.
"I have no idea why they'd do that."
"I think you know why."
I shook my head. "I don't, Dr. Ryan."
"It sounds to me like you believe you don't deserve people—especially Pari." Dr. Ryan gave me a small smile.
"I don't," I replied, staring out of the window. "I never did. Letting people in, caring for people…it's a mistake. I let myself believe I could be part of something, that I could be important. But that's not how things work out for someone like me. I see that now."
"Someone like you? What does that mean?"
"Someone like…." I laughed without humor. "Someone who has no prospects, no education, no nothing, and to top it off, tries to off themselves…that, too , unsuccessfully. Speaking of being a failure, Dr. Ryan, I failed to live well, I failed at taking care of Pari, and finally, I failed to die with dignity. Instead, doctors had to pump my stomach and jump start my heart to keep me alive."
Dr. Ryan shifted in her seat again, the silence thick between us.
"You raised Pari. You made friends. That's being successful at living, Mira. It's normal to feel guilty for trying to take your life, but that doesn't mean you're a failure."
I shrugged, turning my gaze back to her. "This whole conversation is pointless. I'm fine. I'm not going to attempt suicide again. I've learnt my lesson when it comes to people who can hurt me. My sister was smarter than me. She kept everyone at a distance. I'll take her path this time. You can't lose someone if you don't let them in."
Dr. Ryan's eyes softened as she leaned forward. "Don't you think that's a sad way to live your life?"
"No. It's the safe way…maybe the only way for me."
"You've been through a lot, Mira. You've had to carry a lot of weight on your own," Dr. Ryan said, trying to break through, but her words slid off me like water.
I don't care about anyone. I don't care what they think about me. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.
Dr. Ryan watched me, her face calm. "I want you to think about something before we meet again tomorrow."
"Sure." I had nothing but time here to think .
"What could make you worthy? What would you have to do to be worthy of Pari?"
"Easy. I should be someone who doesn't try to overdose on freaking Ambien."
"There are no easy answers." Dr. Ryan rose. "Mira, you're a very strong person, and right now, your mind has put up all kinds of walls to protect you. It's natural. It's normal. You're taking care of yourself, and that is healthy. Think about what I said, and let's connect again tomorrow."
When she got to the door, I blurted out, "You really think I'm strong?"
She turned around. "Yes. What you've been through and how you've handled yourself? That's strength."
"And what happened in the car?"
"Strength doesn't mean that it's constant. We all give in to our weaknesses sometimes. That one time doesn't define our lives. We're more than one incident, one intent."
"Thanks, Dr. Ryan."
When she left the room, I lay back down, and stared at the ceiling again.
I wanted to reflect on what Dr. Ryan had asked me to consider, but it made my head hurt. So, I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep.
Tomorrow, I'd think about what could make me worthy. Today, I'd hide in this room, and pretend to be at peace.