I Guess They Never Disappear

Epilogue the Second (A Finale, Of Sorts)

Four Years Later (Counting from Epilogue the First, not XI)

I don't think about Jared much anymore. We haven't talked for years at this point. The second I assured him that I had told other people about the stuff I did he let us cut contact. 

Contact that we've never bothered to resume. 

It doesn't bother me.

I wouldn't say that it never did. At first, it bothered me a lot, much more than I cared to admit. 

As much as it felt validating to be mad at Jared for wanting to do that, it also made me feel guilty. 

(Because I was the reason, and I had always been the reason, and pushing the guilt onto Jared would just further solidify what I knew and what everyone knew — that I was a terrible person.)

Eventually, I made peace with Jared wanting to never speak to me again. I figured that it was a waste of time for me to dwell on it. 

So I allowed myself to forget about Jared again, but this time was better because this time I understood the impact of my actions. Superficially, yes, at first, but the deeper understanding would come through the hours of talking to people at outpatient therapy. 

Of course, that all happened because I told people about what happened. 

And that was an ordeal in of itself. 

When I told Heidi and Paul, they looked so fucking disappointed in me. They tried to hide it: I could tell. 

That day ended with a lot of crying and a promise that I would go to therapy and tell Chris what happened and do whatever they recommended. 

And I felt worse. It was a common theme. I don't know what I thought — that I would start taking my mental health seriously or whatever and magically feel better. No, it was weeks before I could say I felt anything close to better. 

Chris was a different story. They weren't happy to hear what I had been doing in the slightest, but after I told them what I did, and where it got me, there were a few suggestions presented to me. 

Either I checked myself into inpatient therapy or I got assigned there. 

If I went voluntarily, Chris told me that I would probably be deemed ready to come home in two weeks or less. 

Otherwise, it could be up to a month, or longer. 

They explained it to me as I sat there on the couch, trying not to panic too hard. Since I had just admitted to not taking my meds, they weren't able to trust that I would slip back into that habit, even if I agreed not to. So just as a precaution, I was to go to inpatient to make sure I was taking the medication and not declining mentally. 

I didn't want to go. Nobody wants to go to inpatient therapy, I'm almost certain of it. 

It wasn't really a choice, though. I mean, I could've... not gone. And then, what? Where would I be then? 

Besides, that's not really in the spirit of recovery, or whatever. 

So I checked myself in. 

As Chris told me, it was two weeks of being watched to make sure I was taking my meds, going to group and solo therapy, and eating shitty food. 

I hated every second of it then. Not that think anything particularly different now. I mean, sure, I appreciate that I went voluntarily (and it's one of the few things that I'm proud of myself for doing), but I don't think I would like the experience any more than I did then.