8. Countdown

eight

Countdown

Amanda

M y application for mental health-based leave from work was approved. It’s taken me a few days to come to terms with stepping away from work to take care of myself, and I know my boyfriend is secretly hoping he can convince me not to go back ever. It’s been five days since my psychotic breakdown. He hasn’t left my side, except to work in his home office, since he came home and found me distraught. It’s the first time he’s left me home alone. I begged him for breakfast from the coffee shop and bakery down the street. I actually feel a little guilty about feeling smothered because he was so excited to get us a morning treat. When he left, I curled up in the living room chair to binge watch Gilmore Girls, which is all I’ve done for days. My therapist prescribed me some anti-anxiety medication, but I hate the way it feels. I’ve been pretending to take them, because I’m not a fan of medication and the way it makes me feel disconnected from myself. I’ve treated way too many people for addiction in the emergency room. I’ve been hiding them under my tongue then spitting them into the toilet so he doesn’t notice. Honestly, I’m not sure how my boyfriend would feel about a more natural approach—considering these are prescribed—but something tells me if it meant I would stay at home and let him provide for me, he’d give it a pass. I roll my eyes at myself and my internal monologuing.

I mentally run through the events of the last few days. When he arrived, I was in bed curled up around the pillows, dozing in and out of sleep, mentally exhausted. The second he woke me up, I took one look at him and completely broke down. He spent at least twenty minutes trying to get me calmed down and then when I led him downstairs to see the package of eyeballs on the kitchen counter, nothing was there. Even the knife I know I left on the countertop was back exactly where it belonged. He pulled up all the video footage. Nothing was there. There wasn’t even a video of me opening the front door.

My boyfriend is the one who convinced me to take some mental health time at work and helped me complete all the paperwork. He even emailed it over to my boss for me and made sure my therapy appointments were all set up for virtual. He knows I’m too terrified to leave the house right now. I sigh. How is it that this man is so sweet? He takes the best care of me, goes above and beyond for me all the time, except in the bedroom. It’s been over a month, almost two, since the last time we were intimate. I’m sure he hasn’t tried anything recently because he’s worried about me, but it’s just so confusing. How can everything about him be absolutely perfect and here I am, ungrateful that our relationship isn’t built on sex? Maybe you’re more messed up than you realize. I chastise, turning my attention back to the TV and desperately try to unsuccessfully shut my brain off.

It doesn’t matter. I’m off work until after Halloween. I have strict instructions to check in weekly with the therapist and take it easy. Plus, I’m not allowed to read any more stalker romances or books with lots of triggers until I’m feeling better. Everyone thinks I dreamed it all up. Even I’m beginning to realize they’re probably right. Losing patients is always hard, but this last one messed me up more than I realized. I should be thankful to have such a supportive partner, instead of thinking about how much I wish he would just rail me.

I take a deep breath. Today begins my countdown to Halloween. I’m a member of the spooky-bitches-for-life club, and no amount of anxiety is going to rob me of an opportunity to celebrate the crap out of my favorite holiday this year. Besides, it will help me stay distracted, so long as I don’t watch anything too terrifying. Scary movies move over, spooky season vacation from work begins today.