Chapter 23 Sloan
Sloan
I don’t sleep.
In fact, my brain decides to replay the worst mistakes I’ve ever made.
There are a lot of things about my brain I hate, but I think the rumination might be the worst.
I think about things from years and years ago.
I think about times I laughed too loudly or talked too much, and maybe it’s my imagination now after all this time—our brains can’t be trusted, not really—but I think about everyone falling silent afterwards, and staring at me with forced smiles and abject pity, because really, who was I to think I had a right to take up space?
I think about all the conversations about me and echoes of laughter that took place behind closed doors.
I think about the time Bohdan caught me counting in the library and laughed, because what was that, if not laughable? Who takes comfort in numbers?
I think about the times I’ve made him late because I had to change outfits because the clothes didn’t sit right on my skin, and even though he said it was okay, I don’t think it was okay after all.
I think about the times I threw tantrums almost like a child, crying because things were too loud and too big and too much and he had to hold me against his chest. He said that was okay too, but it couldn’t have been, not really.
I think about how he said he loved every single part of me and that he wouldn’t change my brain even though that was my number one wish and still is after all these years, because my brain made me the person he loved more than anything. But he couldn’t have loved me all that much.
I think about how the last time I said I love you, something very bad happened and I can never say it again, because the next time, it might be worse.
I beg it to stop, but nothing helps.
I try counting. I try to reassure myself even though that solves nothing. I try to shake the thoughts out of my head. I try cold water. I try ice from the freezer.
I give up and take an Ativan when the sky turns the same colour as Bohdan’s eyes.