love, your sweet p

Day 1

     "Pressley, hey sweetheart. I'm here. They wouldn't let me in until eight," I hear someone say and as I hear the creak of someone sitting in a chair, I feel their hand grab mine.

     Tallie. Dad. I open my eyes and I realize I slept through the night, still alive. Damn it. I face my head to look at him. I feel even more guilty about what I did last night. A pounding headache suddenly starts and I groan, squinting my eyes. I sit up and I notice Mom is gone.

     "I'm sorry," I whisper and he strokes my hair.

     "Don't say sorry. How are you?" he asks.

     "Okay, I guess. I have a headache," I complain.

     "I can go see if they can give you something," Tallie offers, standing up.

     "No. I want you to say," I hurriedly shout and he sits back down.

     "Mom is getting you something from this diner. Uh, they're going to release you today, hopefully around noon, but they're going to talk to us about some therapy options and some resources," Tallie informs me.

     "Am I going to a psych ward?" I exclaim, fear rushing through me.

     "No! God, no! Mom told me that's the one thing Stacey said: never take your kid to a psych ward. We're probably going to get you into therapy and just ride this out," he explains and I nod.

     After a minute of silence, I get the nerve to ask, "Are you mad at me?"

     "Pressley, I could never be mad at you for something like this. Never," he reassures me and takes my hand again.

     "Hey, I'm back. There was this diner around. I got us some breakfast. Hey, sweet pea. How're you doing?" Mom asks.

     "Okay. I wanna go home," I mutter.

     "I know, baby. Here's what's going to happen. They're going to come in and give us a fancy demo on some options, they'll discharge us, and I was thinking we could spend the week in New Jersey and we can decide next week if we wanna come back to Dance Moms," Mom tells me.

     "I don't want to leave my friends hanging," I whine as Mom hands me some French toast, condensation on the lid still present.

     I guess my first meal after I almost died. After fighting with my oxygen tube for a good second, I don't taste anything. I'm not physically sick, but I'm now dragged back into reality where all I feel is pain and all I taste is nothing. Tallie and Mom keep looking at me and glancing at each other while they eat their food. I guess I'm not trying to hide how dead I feel inside.

     It's eerily quiet. Normally, we laugh and we chat and it's all smiles. Now it's subtle frowns and silence. I ruined everything. I want to disappear into this bed. That would make it less awkward. But I can't. My stomach feels like it's ripping in half though. I make a grimace and hold my stomach. I guess getting your stomach pumped ruins your stomach.

     After a couple of more minutes of silently eating, a man not wearing a doctor's coat walks in with a tan clipboard. He's wearing a blue sweater and plaid pants, but he has a hospital badge. He looks happy and excited. Read the room man.

     "Alright, Ms. Pressley. My name is Mr. Vaughn," he introduces in a very Australian accent, shaking my hand.

     It feels weird. Why didn't he introduce himself as a doctor? It says so on his tag?

     "Are you a doctor? You said Mr.," I point out, and he chuckles.

     "Mr. sounds nicer, don't ya think?" he explains, and when he senses I don't really want to talk, Mr. Vaugh continues, "Now, I am here to talk to you and your parents about aftercare and some steps forward to move on and heal from this... traumatic event. Um, so the first option is therapy. There are many different types of therapy. The three main types of therapy are cognitive behavioral, and psychotherapy. Next is medication. Now, that's gonna vary from person to person but there's antidepressants, anxiolytics, and antipsychotics. We'd also look at some support groups around the area with the same goal as you. Any questions?"

     Nobody says anything. We all just want to drive home.

     "Alright. Here is a pamphlet. I will go get the doctor to give you discharge paperwork. Have a nice day y'all," Mr. Vaughn announces, leaving.

     "Do you wanna talk about this now or-" Mom starts.

     "Later. I just wanna see Shenanigans and Pippa," I mutter, nearly to a whisper, and they nod in understanding.

     "Why don't you change into some clothes?" Mom suggests, handing me a bag.

     I look inside the bag. Clothes. Mom normally has a good fashion sense. I also see jewelry and even a hairbrush.

     "Thanks," I mumble, trying to stand up.

     As I stand, everything feels okay. When I walk though, all the monitors are clinging to me. Ugh. Mom giggles at my misfortune and I crack a fake smile. I'm such an idiot. Why can't I do anything wrong? I'm so stupid.

     So I have to stay in bed. I do manage to brush out my hair, but I get tangled in all the cords. Thirty minutes later, a nurse removes the monitors and I change. Dusty pink sweatpants and a dusty pink hoodie. I guess she preferred comfort over fashion when picking it out. She also put in a necklace with a butterfly.

     "Pressley? They're kicking us out! Come out!" Tallie shouts, laughing, his voice fading.

     Dad humor. I open the door and they're standing outside. They really did kick them out. I grab my phone from the side table and I walk out. Mom and Tallie give me one more hug before Tallie takes my hand. I'm going home.

     The walk from the hospital to the cars isn't long. Mom and Tallie brought different cars, so I have to decide. I don't want to hurt my parent's feelings. As we near the cars, I start panicking. Who should I choose?

     "Why don't you go with Mom? I'll be okay," Tallie offers and I nod.

     "I love you," I mutter, hugging him tightly.

     "I love you too. I'll see you in NJ," Tallie exclaims, walking to his car.

     Now it's Mom and me. She gives me one more hug before she gets in the driver's seat. I opt for the passenger's seat. Immediately, after putting on my seatbelt, I text all of the teammates I'm out for the week. Everybody sends me good luck and get-better-soon messages. I feel so bad.

     "Ready to go home?" Mom asks as she starts up the car and I nod.

     "I'm sorry," I utter one final time.

     "It's okay, sweetheart. Don't ever be sorry," she consoles and I frown as she pulls out of the parking lot.

      I put in the hospital and our address. A five-hour and forty-seven-minute drive. I stare out the window as we start merging onto the highway. How should I try to kill myself next? I don't want to be in New Jersey for very long.

     Mom turns on the radio. It has a bunch of happy pop songs. I hate it. I hate everything. I lean against the seat in anger. I'm so mad at everything. I wish I had a time machine. Maybe if I had swallowed more pills. Now I have to live with what I did.

     I haven't had this long of a ride without five to six kids driving me insane. In a good way. I regret for a moment not hanging out with them more. As we merge onto the interstate, I realize how long and boring this trip will be.

     "After we get home, we're going to talk about some options. Tomorrow, we're going to your doctor to set up some therapy, if that's what we decide on, and then on Friday, we were thinking of going down to Atlantic City for the weekend. Then we can decide if you want to go back to Pittsburgh. Sounds good?" Mom informs me, and I nod.

     After an hour of the open road, my eyelids start feeling heavy. I wish I was in the back. I recline the seat down and I close my eyes. I guess all the sleep that I haven't had in the last month is finally catching up to me.

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