CHAPTER 11: HELL ON THE THROAT ;;
No one said it would be easy. I must admit I thought the risk was better waged in younger seasons, but all these years in the cold play hell on the throat.
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Once my parents exited, I relaxed a bit. I was still incredibly angry, but there was nothing I could do. No amount of screaming, crying, being angry, or being jealous would give me those years back. And it tore me the fuck apart. I worked so hard for perfection, but I ended up doing quite the opposite. I got nothing except an eating disorder, depression, and anxiety.
"Is everything alright?" the nurse asked from her spot in the doorway. She walked fluidly across the room and sat down next to me in the office chair.
"Yeah," I sighed. "I guess so. Compared to how I've been for a long time, I guess this is good." I fell back against the pillows and closed my eyes.
"I'm sure you're exhausted. I don't know half on what has happened to you in the past day, but I'll bet it hasn't been easy. I'll just leave you then. Make sure to call if you need anything," she said softly.
"Mm," I mumbled back. The door clicked shut and my mind began to wander until I fell into a dreamless sleep.
//
When I woke up, it was dark outside. I could see snow falling from the light cast by the streetlights just outside my window. I clicked the help button as fast and as hard as I could. "Come here, come on," I whisper-yelled as a few tears slipped out of the corner of my eyes. "Come one, someone." My nurse from earlier appeared, clearly very distressed.
"What's going on? What's wrong?" She asked as her eyes glanced around the room, searching for any signs of foul play.
"What day is it? What time is it? When can I go home? I feel sick. I'm scared. I'm alone. I don't want to be here anymore. I want to feel better. I want to go home. I want to be in my bed. I want to be safe," I confessed. My voice got high, like it always did when I wanted to cry. It was to no avail. I put my head in my hands as I felt my life crumble. My nose ran and snot trialed from my palms along my wrists. "Please." She sat down on the bed next to me and rested an ice cold hand on my back uncomfortably.
"It's December thirteenth. You've been here three days now -- you slept through the rest of yesterday. It's a little after 3 in the morning. You're eighteen, so legally, you can leave whenever you want. But you stated earlier that you had suicidal thoughts, so we're going to have you meet with a psychiatrist later today -- if you want," she answered.
"Okay. Alright. I think I can do that. I can do that," I said aloud, to assure myself that I could, in fact, do it.
"I'm going to set up an appointment now with the psychiatrist. I'll tell you when I find out, okay? Call if you need anything again, alright? Do you need something to eat? Or drink?" She babbled.
It had been ages since I'd eaten a real meal. When was the last time I had sat down at a table, at a balanced meal, drank something, and didn't force it out of my body after? I didn't know if my body could even handle a full meal anymore. "Can I have vegetable soup, please? With crackers. And I need a lot of water," I answered after what felt like ages.
"I'll be back with that," she said as she disappeared back into the hall. I flopped back against the pillows once again. I thought of Patrick and Manderson. I missed them both like hell. I hadn't spoken to them since that fated night in my dorm. They were both just trying to help me, but I was too sick and too deep in denial to realize it. When my nurse reappeared, I asked her for a notepad and my cell phone.
