40. Chapter 40
Jordan found me the next morning. A dehydrated husk on the bathroom floor, surrounded by half-dried vomit.
Utterly unable to cope. He managed to drag me out of my apartment to my psychiatrist’s office.
I picked at my nails as we waited in the lobby for three hours. Crisis or not, appointments came first.
Detached from my surroundings, with a head full of static, I watched an assortment of people filed in and out of the waiting room.
Jordan stayed at my side the whole time.
He worked on his phone, never complaining.
When I finally was called back to see him, Dr. Davison looked a little alarmed at my appearance.
“What’s going on, Poppy?” he asked.
“…Everything,” I mumbled.
He raised an eyebrow. My thoughts were a mess, but I attempted to articulate them the best I could.
Explaining the darkness was such an ordeal.
Putting words on the gloomy hellscape of my soul made sense to me but sounded strange to others’ ears.
I fidgeted in my chair as I admitted I just wanted not to feel, to sleep forever, to stop.
That confession made Charlie very concerned for my ability to keep myself safe.
Jordan volunteered to help me. We left with a safety plan in place, an appointment with a new therapist, and a medication increase.
When I tried being open about my mental health, the fear of backlash was always present.
I tried to keep it hidden away. The past reactions of those closest to me only reinforced my shame.
I was weird and crazy. That, I always knew.
Those labels were proof enough that I needed to work through my things on my own.
Or so I thought. Jordan and Shay stepped up without a hint of judgment or mockery. They set themselves up in my tiny studio, only leaving for work, or to go shopping.
Shay sat in bed, holding me close while I cried.
Jordan hid the breakup letter and attempted cooking in my small kitchen.
Shay studied at my desk and hummed along to 90s R&B.
Jordan came home in the afternoons and told me everything I was missing out on at Popbyte.
Shay took down my braids and combed out my hair.
Their presence interrupted the loud quiet that was my normal.
Things were cluttered and very crowded. But it was what I needed.
Their love and friendship surrounded me.
I’m not alone.
I don’t have to do this alone.
After an evening of tacos and terrible movies, Jordan’s snoring floated over the folding screen as Shay and I settled into bed.
“Night Poppy.” She smiled.
“… Wait…Can I talk to you about something?”
For days I’d been eyeing her doula textbooks on my desk.
Their existence in my space mocked me. Internally, I’d run the gamut of emotions.
Anger, fear, and then confusion. It burrowed into my chest before bursting out, and suddenly, I wanted to talk about it.
I wanted to know what she thought. I wanted insight. I craved it.
“Always.” She fished under the blanket for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “You feeling alright?”
“I think so. I, uh, I want to talk about your doula stuff.”
“Really? You never seemed all that interested before.”
“There’s a reason for that.” I swallowed as my throat suddenly felt tight. “I’m a murderer.”
“Excuse me?”
“…I’m a murderer. I killed my mom.”
“Shit, Poppy. How? What happened?”
“Me. Being born killed her,” I squeaked.
I was thankful for the cloak of darkness. Being unable to see her reaction allowed me the space to confess.
“She died in childbirth?”
“Yeah.”
Shay squeezed my hand again. “That doesn’t make you a murderer.”
Her words scrambled my self-talk. My label was self-defined. It was born from a need to describe what my existence had done. I never talked about it, so no one had ever refuted it.
“B-But I am.”
“Oh, sweetheart ,no you’re not. You were a baby being born. You had no control over your environment or any outcomes. You couldn’t even hold your head up.”
A disorientating sense of panic enveloped me.
“You’re not understanding! She died! She died because of me!” Tears rolled down my cheeks and onto my pillowcase.
“Poppy,” she sighed softly before pulling me into her arms. “That’s not true. It’s not true at all, and I’m so sorry you feel that way.”
“It is true!” I cried.
“Your Mom died, yes, that is true. But you didn’t kill her. You’re not evil. You’re not a murderer. You’re just Poppy. A sweet baby who never got to meet her mom and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Shay held me as I wept. Tears and snot leaked on her shoulder, and she remained stoic in her support.
“I’m sorry I never knew about this, Poppy. You never told us.”
“T-Too hard to talk about,” I sniffled.
“Totally fair. Something I learned in my classes is that Black women are almost 250% more likely to die in childbirth. That shit is terrifying.”
Trust me, I know.
I wiped my nose. “Why is that?”
“It’s a mix of racism with outdated and overworked healthcare systems. But mostly racism. So many doctors don’t take Black pain seriously. It kills us, literally. That’s why I want to do my small part to help. Do you know how your mom died?”
“…Embolism.”
“That was something that developed overtime and went overlooked by her doctors. You didn’t cause that, Poppy.”
Little sharp granules of sand poured into my throat, making speech impossible. I blinked into the darkness. I wasn’t sure that I believed Shay. But her words had upended my worldview.
***
It took a couple of weeks for my mood to turn a corner.
The need to feel numb slowly faded away as the meds and therapy combo started to work.
I welcomed laughter once again. I interacted with my unexpected roommates more instead of sitting back like a haunted observer.
Shay convinced me to try yoga, and we got our stretch on while listening to audio books.
My body resisted the movements but hummed with awareness.
Sweat glistened across my forehead. I liked it.
Yoga became a part of my morning routine 15 minutes a day.
The worst part of coming out of a depressive fog was the insistence of real life peering in and waiting for a chance to attack. I preferred hiding my head in the sand.
An official-looking letter from my landlord arrived and the thought of opening it made me sick. Jordan’s fingers literally trembled as the minutes ticked by.
“I don’t care. You guys aren’t paying my rent!” I protested in between bites of pizza.
The letter’s arrival had sparked a debate about my rent and my inability to pay it.
“It’s not that big of a deal, Poppy. I got a good bonus this month. I don’t mind helping,” Jordan noted.
I shook my head. “You guys have done so much already. I’m not going to allow it.”
“How else can you pay for it?” Shay asked.
“I have no idea, but let me try to work something out.”
“At least open the damn letter!” Jordan pleaded.
I stomped across the room, grabbed the letter off the counter, and tossed it at him.
Almost giddy, Jordan ripped open the envelope.
His face ran the gamut of emotions from confusion to shock as he read over the paperwork.
Shay and I exchanged nervous glances as he took his damn time reading each page.
“Sooo…?” Shay asked.
“Uh, Poppy? This says your rent for the next 12 months has been paid in full.”
“What?” Shay and I said in unison.
“Yeah. It’s just a receipt.”
I snatched the papers out of his hand. He was right. In the middle of all the legal jargon, it said my rent into next year was paid in full and to keep the papers for my records. My chest tightened. There were no names or companies listed. But they didn’t have to be.
Summoner…