Ruthless

CHAPTER 44

At first, my new life in Iceland was exciting. Everything felt fresh and beautiful, and I hoped this new beginning would bring peace. But, over time, the excitement faded, and I was left alone with my thoughts and memories. Every morning, I’d remind myself that today was a new day, but the weight of everything I’d lost stayed with me, making each day feel heavy. The beauty around me—snowy mountains, clear blue skies, endless ocean—became a reminder of everything I was missing inside.

And that’s when I realized I was only distracting myself. I was just trying to cover up the pain by keeping myself busy, by focusing on the beauty of Iceland.

I tried to keep myself more busy, filling my days with hikes and photography. I even took up journaling, hoping it would help me release my feelings. But, no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t shake the sadness. Many nights, I’d find myself by the ocean, looking out into the distance with tears streaming down my face, crying until I could barely breathe. I felt isolated, like I’d built a wall around myself that even Iceland’s beauty couldn’t break through.

My mother’s memory haunted me the most. Simple things would remind me of her—her laughter, the way she used to reassure me. I missed her so much that it felt unbearable. Then there was the pain of my miscarriage, another piece of my heart that felt lost. And Clyde…all the anger, the blame, and the confusion we left behind. It all mixed together, leaving me feeling empty. There were days when I felt suffocated by it, when even the beauty of Iceland’s landscapes couldn’t calm the aching sadness. The peace I’d sought here was turning into loneliness, a hollow reminder that I was still grieving, that I was still broken.

After weeks of battling these feelings, I decided to reach out for help. It was a small step, but it felt monumental at the time. I found a therapist in the nearby town, someone who specialized in grief and trauma. I remember sitting in her cozy office, surrounded by soft light and warm colors, trying to convince myself that I was making the right choice. But as I sat there, the reality of my situation hit me. I was hurting, and it was okay to ask for help.

The first session was tough. My therapist, Dr. Sigurdsson, handed me a survey to fill out, asking questions that made my stomach twist. “Do you often feel sad or hopeless?” “Do you have thoughts of self-harm or suicide?” I hesitated before answering, the questions feeling like daggers aimed straight at my heart. I scribbled down my responses, each answer revealing a little more of my truth.

When I got to the question, “Do you often find it difficult to enjoy things you once loved?” I paused, feeling the tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I used to love the beach, the sun, the sound of laughter. Now, it felt as if joy was a distant memory. I forced myself to answer, each response drawing me closer to a realization I had been avoiding. I was depressed, and I needed to face it.

After our initial session, I began attending therapy regularly. At first, it felt like peeling back layers of a wound that had long been festering. Dr. Sigurdsson guided me gently through my memories, encouraging me to talk about my mother, the miscarriage, and the darkness that had seeped into my life after losing her. I shared stories of Clyde, of our once-close friendship turned sour. Each session felt like a cathartic release, yet the weight never fully lifted.

As the months passed, I found myself in a cycle of progress and setbacks. I would have good days—days when I could laugh, when the beauty of Iceland would sweep over me like a warm embrace. But then, just as suddenly, I would fall into despair, crying on the floor of my house as the cold wind howled outside.

During these dark moments, I learned to cope in small ways. I started painting, the colors reflecting my emotions on the canvas. I would lose myself in the strokes of the brush, pouring my heart into each piece. I would create sunsets that mirrored the ones I watched from the beach, the vibrant oranges and purples capturing my fleeting moments of happiness. Art became a lifeline, a way for me to express what I couldn’t say aloud.