Chapter Thirty-Two
Mara-two months later
ceilings - Lizzy McAlpine
Borderline personality disorder. That’s what my therapist diagnosed me with.
And, to be honest, it makes sense. She described it as the middle child between bipolar disorder and depression.
Where you have ups and downs but not quite as rapidly as being bipolar and not as consistently down as depression is.
Which explains why I can feel so content in my life, so at peace with things and then all of a sudden a spiral of sadness consumes me out of nowhere.
Labeling how I feel both makes it feel all too real, and gives me a sliver of hope that this isn’t forever.
Putting a label on it helps me define my actions as more than just being emotional.
Through lots of self reflection and research, I’ve accepted that this isn’t something that has a magic cure, but I can learn to cope with the bad days and hold on to the good days through skills I’m learning in therapy.
I spent so much time denying that this would be a part of my life forever, I thought I could fix it like I’ve had to fix everything else in my life.
But I’ve had to accept a lot of hard truths in the past two months.
My parents were shocked, to say the least, when I showed up on their doorstep—alive.
At first, they thought I’d been kidnapped but no ransom call ever came.
Then they assumed I’d just run away from home.
They should have known me better than that.
I don’t make impulsive decisions often. But after they didn’t hear from me for months, they assumed I was gone forever.
I didn’t bother to ask if they held a memorial for me or even tried to figure out where I went.
I don’t think I want to know even though deep down, I do.
I told them as much as I could while composing myself so I didn’t break down into tears.
I told them about the accident and how Jason found me.
I told them about how I spent the winter at their cabin on the mountain and they kept me alive until the snow and ice melted enough for us to drive safely back.
I didn’t tell them anything personal about my relationship with Jason and the inevitable end.
And they didn’t ask why I looked so distraught upon my return.
Just the way I wanted it. All I wanted was to cry for the next decade and hide away.
But my mother insisted I should go to therapy.
One of her girlfriends suggested a woman in town and that’s how I found Nita.
She’s wonderful. Non-judgemental, objective, insightful, and informative.
She balances the scales of emotion and logic in a way that makes sense to me.
It feels like I’m talking to a friend but without the social constructions of expectations.
I’m not afraid of what she thinks because frankly I don’t give a fuck.
But when she does have something to say, it’s always helpful.
She’s helped me to understand what I’m feeling and dealing with without telling me what to do.
She’s guided me into a state of self-awareness that I wouldn’t have been able to find without her.
She’s also the only person I’ve told about what really happened with Jason.
I didn’t tell her Jason’s secrets because they aren’t mine to tell, even to someone who’s bound by law to keep secrets.
Just that our crash and burn came from me sticking my nose where it didn’t belong and his inability to see past his own insecurities.
Nita reminded me that I am not to blame for that.
I know that, but it’s still reassuring to hear that.
She also reminded me that we can’t force others to see things our way, to do what they don’t want to.
And as much as I’d like to be the most important reason for working on his issues, I can’t be. It has to be his cognitive choice.
I just wish I had been enough.
But I keep that to myself because she’d probably tell me I am enough, he is the one who isn’t strong enough to make a change. And that I deserve better than someone who doesn’t give an equal effort.
I could have continued my free-loader existence at my parents house but Nita also suggested a sense of independence would be beneficial for my healing.
And routine would be helpful to balance my ups and downs.
So I took a job at a local coffee shop called Mt.
Hood Coffee Roasters (that name didn’t require a lot of brain cells to come up with).
It’s mediocre work that numbs my mind and keeps me busy.
I spent the first couple weeks facing every person I’ve ever met in town, and all their questions about the last few years.
“Oh, you’re back with your parents?”
“We thought you ran off. What happened?”
“Really? The Alder brothers? Those freaks?”
“I can’t believe you’re still alive.”
Neither can I.
I took all of my willpower not to berate every person who badmouthed Dylan and Jason in the shop.
Despite how things ended, I’ll still defend those misunderstood boys to anyone who dares to speak ill of them.
They aren’t freaks. They shouldn’t be outcasts.
They’re the most authentic and honorable men I’ve ever met. I just wish others could see it.
I haven’t seen either of them in town since I’ve been back.
I didn’t expect to see Jason ever again, but I thought I’d at least see Dylan getting groceries or at the bar, maybe.
A part of me even thought he’d find out I worked at the coffee shop and would come to see me.
But it’s been radio silence for two months.
I haven’t seen Dylan since he hugged me, told me Jason loved me, and left me at my parents house.
I’ve thought about leaving again several times, too ashamed to stay, too heartbroken to think about the man I loved living a short drive up the mountain in the same county as me.
Does proximity make it harder to forget?
Or will I be emotionally scarred by the events of this winter for the rest of my life?
I don’t know where I’d go if I left or what I would do to make a fresh start.
It’s not like I make enough at the coffee shop to get my own place in town either.
The town is so small there aren’t any apartment buildings so the only housing is rental houses that no one can afford on a single income let alone minimum wage.
And the idea of roommates is just as bad as living with my parents so I’m coasting through life, at the moment, and my current circumstances.
I work the morning shift on Saturdays, so it’s only one in the afternoon by the time I make it back to my parent’s house. I’ve never really called it home because it doesn’t feel like home.
The cabin on the mountain where a brooding, pigheaded man lives feels more like home.
I try not to think about the things I miss but sometimes I can’t help it.
When I walk into the kitchen and start making lunch I miss how we used to make all our meals together, eat them together, clean together.
I’ve read found family books before but having one is indescribably more significant than it feels reading about it.
It’s hard to explain how unexpected friends can fill a void you didn’t realize existed in the first place.
The housekeeper stocks the fridge with pre-made meals for the weekend in organized, identical containers so my mother never has to do more than operate the microwave.
But I asked her if she could start getting sandwich ingredients from the store on her weekly trips so I could make my own.
Making breakfast and lunch for myself has been a little comfort that gives me a sense of normalcy.
Nita thought that was a great idea and commended me for it.
I’m layering Turkey and cheese onto sourdough bread (I miss making bread too) atop the marble countertops when my mother walks past the kitchen and wrinkles her nose at the menial task she considers beneath us.
“How was work?” She asks me. It’s part of our new routine. She thinks the idea of me working when I don’t have to is absurd, but tolerates it regardless. Every day when I get back from work, she asks how it was and I supply the same answer each time.
“Fine.” Today I add, “One of the steamers stopped working which caused some back up but we managed.”
Judging by the perplexed look on her face, I doubt she knows what a steamer is.
“When is your next session with Dr. Riley?”
“Monday.” It varies based on my work schedule.
“And how’s that going?” Even though she’s the one who suggested therapy, she acts like it’s a stain on her reputation.
Now that I’m not the accomplished straight A student excelling in multiple extracurricular activities and volunteering on the weekends, I’m useless in her world.
I was ornamentation on her wall of bragging rights but my color has faded so what’s the point of even having a daughter now? I guess my purpose has run its course.
“It’s good. Nita is wonderful. She’s been really great with helping me move on from this winter and a lot of the things that happened before it.”
“Before it? What on earth do you need to talk about in therapy before your trauma this winter? You didn’t have any issues before then.”
Is she serious? If you listen close enough, you can hear something in my brain snap.
“I don’t know, how about the pressure of being perfect for you and Dad and never feeling good enough? Or the fact that my boyfriend cheated on me? Oh, or the part where I was so lost I decided to drive off a bridge and got into an accident in the snow instead?”
I didn’t mean for that last part to slip. But in the heat of the moment my momentum propelled my tongue into speaking faster than my brain could keep track of.
She stares at me wide-eyed and slack-jawed, like I’ve just transformed into a different species before her very eyes.