Paint Me Saved ✓ Book 1

39. Road to recovery

Zemira

It started with a growing affinity for my bed; a love affair that turned sour. I stayed longer in the stale hold of my covers, breathing in the musty stench of mold-infested sandwiches that I refused to be cleared out.

Then a day came when time stopped being a quantifiable entity and I stopped having any understanding of what I was doing. All I wanted was to sleep, to unblinkingly stare at the ceiling or to stay stagnant in the position I sat or slept in.

The sensation of life rippling beneath the surface of my skin ceased.

Since my last outburst, Dad's concern forced him to call for a doctor. Suffice to say, his conclusion of my ailment was correct. I was diagnosed with depression.

That was a couple of weeks ago.

Since then, a whole other week had passed, being subjected to the doctor's supervision for the sin I tried committing with my life.

It wasn't a premeditated move nor was it a reckless decision. I presumed myself to be a strong woman who knew when to ask for help. The day in question caught me off-guard.

Time passed in blimps. 

Harbored pain swept and corroded my iron-walled strength, numbness triggered my make-belief foundations to tremble. One moment I was detangling my hair and in another, my life.

A newer diagnosis - my depression had grown over time - didn't make much sense to me but Dad sat and listened to the doctor's rant.

"Since her mother's demise, then Tag's, and now with what happened..." That puny little man pointed a pen at me. "She locked her frustration and emotions inside. There was no let out and now it's harming her."

Thank you for nothing, doctor.

"If a volcano doesn't find a gap to escape, it spills out the wrong way," he said, proudly straightening his coat like teaching science experiments to fourth graders. "It comes out to burn and harm everyone."

"What's it that you suggest, doctor?" Dad's tension gripped voice broke my heart. "I want what's best for my daughter. I want her back, like the way she was before."

Like that was possible.

The solution they came up with was a place in another state, nestled in a secluded hilltop that overlooked the ocean.

Sunset Malibu recovery centre wasn't for an average person. It was for privileged women like me who never got their hands dirty or their clothes soiled. It was a place where elitists went for privacy and nirvana - not the original source but the boxed-up shit peddled to the masses during drug-induced music festivals.

Upon my arrival at the so-called heaven on earth where sunlight seemed to be less intense yet everyone was tanned to crisp, I sat wondering in my room. 

What was the purpose of spending millions on me when I would always remain damaged?

I was provided with a diary for jotting my thoughts, for keeping track of my developments; like there would be a miraculous turn of events and I would be happy again.

I lost count of the days and dates since I handed the green, leather-bound diary.

Talks helped. They helped in keeping the demonic possession of my numbness at bay. Most days went fine yet some days, certain episodes - of Tag's demise, of Leo's rejection - would replay in a loop with the sound effects of my unheard laments while I was assaulted.

In an attempt to erase those memories, I tried everything.

I shaved my head to toss away its inbred hold. I tried breaking mirrors that reflected a sunken-eyed woman who never smiled. I screamed and shouted in a soundproof room with glasses so thick that it took ages for the sunlight to warm my skin.