Chapter 4 Brianna
Brianna
Resurfacing from the darkness of my own guilt
Today is the first time in months I feel like I’ve resurfaced from the darkness of my own guilt.
I stand underneath the showerhead and focus on the hot water beating against my skin.
The steam hugs me like a long, long lost friend.
My scalp, which is in desperate need for some love, tingles from my tea tree shampoo.
I scrub my body, focusing on the gritty slide of the exfoliation beads on my skin.
I forgot how therapeutic and grounding a shower could be.
Anytime I have the energy to do the basics, I cling to it like a lifeline.
I finish all my skincare steps before exiting my ensuite bathroom to jump back into my uniform of sweats and a hoodie.
I may be feeling better right now, but I’m not ready to give up the sweats.
They don’t hug me like my old clothes used to, which I guess is the purpose.
Since the accident, I’ve put on more weight. Thanks, emotional eating.
I used to be so proud of my body. I had an hourglass figure, toned stomach, and a firm ass. Now? My stomach has rolls, my thighs are thicker and full of stretch marks, and I have no one to blame but myself. So goodbye cute, sexy, skin-tight clothes, and hello pullovers, joggers and leggings.
Jeans? I don’t know her anymore—nor do I want to. She’s so judgmental, tending to put your flaws on display.
Yeah, no thanks. I think I’ll stick with hiding my body.
I still can’t look in the mirror for longer than the few minutes it takes to tame my rat's nest hair. Looking at myself for extended periods of time leads to me outlining my flaws like art on a canvas. And then boom, emotional breakdown. And I’ve had enough of those.
I seem to cry at the drop of a hat nowadays.
Last week, I couldn’t get the damn cap off a jar of pickles.
I ended up on the kitchen floor, hysterically sobbing.
The sound of my phone pinging brings me out of my self-loathing only to dive right back into it when I see who it is. My throat thickens with emotion and my eyes sting with unshed tears.
Mom: Hey sweetie, I wanted to check in on you. I know you need your space. I’m thinking of you always. I love you, Lovebug.
You thought you could get rid of us? You are nothing but a failure.
I haven’t seen or talked to either of my parents since the wedding.
After the accident, I was able to keep up the ruse of being okay.
But like in the game of Jenga, one wrong move and the whole structure comes tumbling down.
Small spikes of anxiety turn into full-fledged panic attacks, and I just can’t do it.
I love my parents, but I can no longer look them in the eyes without feeling an intense amount of guilt for everything that happened.
The rational, healthy response would be to talk to them about my feelings. But the rational train left the station ages ago. Instead, I’ve isolated myself from everyone I love. Misery, party of one.
My throat feels tight, and my eyes sting when I see my mom’s recent text. And, because I’m masochistic, I scroll through every previous message from my parents, knowing it’ll only cause me pain.
You’re a shitty daughter. Look at how hurt your parents are. All. Your. Fault.
(February 20th, 2026) Mom: Hi, lovebug. I wanted to see how you were doing. You left the wedding without a goodbye. I tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail. Please give us a call soon. Love you.
(March 3rd, 2026) Mom: Hey, lovebug. Your father and I miss you so much. I’m not sure what’s going on, but please call or text us back. We’re worried. Love you.
(March 14th, 2026) Mom: Hey bug. I hope all of our messages are going through. I was looking through my camera roll and I came across a few of you. You looked stunning in your maid of honor dress. I love and miss you so much. Please call or text your dad and I, let us know you’re okay.
(April 5th, 2026) Dad: Hey, bug. I wanted to check in and see what’s going on with you? You haven’t reached out to your mother and I. We’re really worried about you. Love you
(April 28th, 2026) Mom: Hey sweetheart, we understand you might need some space. After a lot of discussion with your father, we’ve come to the understanding that you probably need some time alone. Just know we’re here for you when you’re ready. We love you so much.
(April 28th, 2026) Dad: What Mom said. We love you, kiddo.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I scroll through every unanswered message.
Avery: Hi, Bee, I just wanted to say I love you. I know you’re struggling right now, but know I’m always here for you.
Avery: Babes. My heart breaks for you and Max. I hate seeing you both in so much pain.
Avery: I know you’re lost in your own space right now and I can’t do much to help, but maybe a few memes will help?
Avery: *meme attached*
Avery: *meme attached*
Avery: *meme attached*
Avery: Okay I love you so much. Please take care of my bestie. She means the world to me. xoxo
Avery’s texts are one thing, but Max’s? Those are a knife straight to my heart.
Max: Hey, Breezy. Where the hell are you? This hospital room is absolute ass without you here.
Max: Hey Breezy, Mom and Dad finally talked to me about everything that happened. It’s not your fault, you know that right? Love you, sis.
Max: …?
Max: Okay, so maybe you don’t know that what happened isn’t on you. I know I can’t convince you otherwise, but I will keep trying. I miss your stupid face. Please talk to me.
I place my phone in my pocket…I think I’ve tortured myself enough. I have no real reason to ignore everyone, but tell that to my brain. She’s very good at being the villain in my story, gaslighting me into believing I’m the awful person she makes me out to be.
So, instead of trying to fight through the rubble, I activate my turtle shell, hiding myself from the world—especially the ones I love most.
In the past, when I needed a break from reality, I turned to reading.
There’s nothing like getting lost in a book—preferably a smutty romance.
Real-life men can be so disappointing, but fictional book boyfriends?
They never let me down. But now, when I think about HEAs and green-flag fictional men, it doesn’t hold the same appeal.
I don't deserve to escape into the pages. I deserve to live with my mistakes.
I walk toward my library, hoping it’ll give me the joy I once felt. My fingers wrap around the cold brass-colored doorknob, and I freeze.
You don’t deserve to read books. You can’t even take care of yourself, so why do you think you should do anything that makes you happy? You don’t deserve to be happy.
My inner demons screech in my head, drowning out the rational angels telling me that’s fake news. I shake my head before turning around and walking down the stairs.
I gather everything needed to make my go-to meal: cereal.
It’s not a five-star dish, but it brings me comfort.
A perk of making cereal? You can’t really fuck it up.
Cocoa Puffs have been a staple in my diet for these last few months.
I mean, it's chocolate. Who doesn't love chocolate?
Plus, it gives me a small boost of serotonin.
And when I get even a sliver of happiness, I clutch it in my grasp like a squirrel with its nut.
I put the bowl aside to make some much-needed coffee.
I pop a sugar cookie coffee k-cup into my Keurig, the smell of rich, buttery vanilla filling the kitchen.
I add the necessary amount of creamer to my mug, grab my cereal bowl, and head to my dining room table.
I don’t even really taste the food, another symptom of whatever the fuck is going on with me.
Food is no longer for survival, but a way to numb the pain.
It’s a temporary glimpse at happiness—even if it’s not authentic.
I feel a vibration in the pocket of my sweats, and the sensation alone has my heart dropping at my feet.
I should ignore it…I’ve already drowned in enough guilt today.
But do I do that? No. Because I apparently like to torture myself.
Max: Hi, Bri. I know you’re reading these texts. I wish you’d let me in, tell me what’s going on. I can’t help but think I did something wrong. Just…Can you please talk to me?
Fuck. Why did I look? I knew the text would only make me feel like shit.
You’re an awful sister. You’re so selfish. You abandoned him when he needed you.
The sound of a doorbell pulls me from my downward spiral.
Who the hell is that? My parents and Avery have keys to my place and usually let themselves in.
Not that they would be visiting, anyway.
Why would they when I’ve been ignoring them?
And Max…Well, I’ve been ignoring him ever since the accident, so it’s not him.
Do I have any rationale for leaving my brother on read? Nope.
So I did what any sane person would do…I Googled my symptoms. It’s probably the last thing I should have done, but I needed answers. So I typed in ‘trauma after accident’ and ‘ignoring family’ and, well…my results were an affirming slap in the face.
Depression.
That word is still a punch to the gut, leaving me wheezing for air whenever I think about it.
That one Google search led me down a rabbit hole of information that made my head spin.
But one tidbit has always stood out to me.
Turns out, my isolation from everyone is due to my newfound chemical imbalance…
Thank you, trauma. And what mental health article isn’t without tips and tricks to help you work through it?
The word therapy felt like it was written across every document in big, bold, black ink.
Underlined. Italicized. It screamed at me from every page, encouraging me to talk to someone, but I wasn’t ready… I’m still not.