where truth and fiction meet // buckin

thirty-nine

Jonny's POV

Today I had therapy. Not chemotherapy—but actual counseling.

The reason I am taking it this far is because I can't handle keeping in these emotions. Chris is my husband and I love the support he's given me—but I need psychological help; it won't get better unless some professional addresses my problems with their own knowledge of my situation.

"Hello, Jonny, I'm Kylie Jones. Introduce your struggles, from the very beginning of this cancer. Tell me how you feel today and like you did then."

I swallowed hard, crossing my legs and looking at the ground to avoid eye contact as I talked, "It's been like two and a half years since I've been diagnosed with brain cancer. I had severe headaches, I couldn't sleep, I often found myself forgetting little things. It was terrible. They said chemotherapy wouldn't help me, so they immediately jumped into giving me radiation treatments. It didn't help much but the headaches gradually hurt less."

"And your emotional state? What was going on in your personal life that changed the way you saw things of that retrospective?"

"I was very—depressed. I didn't feel like I was going to get any better. I cried all the time and Chris didn't know what to do. He just comforted me and tried to make me feel loved."

"Do you tell him you're depressed? And when you say 'depressed' I would like for you to explain yourself further, so I know how to address this."

"I—tried telling him. But nothing came out like I wanted it to. I just felt and still continue to feel alone in this battle. I have my baby on the way as well, and it would be fantastic to be in his life. But he will get older, and around the age of five I will probably die. I don't want him to gain all those memories with him and him see me perish like dust in the wind."

It was quite for a few moments as she wrote down something on the notepad before me. I didn't know what it was she had written but it was probably about what I just said.

"Do you have rather—negative thoughts towards yourself?"

I took a deep breath and spoke, "yeah, but nothing more than a contemplative thought. But in reality, I don't know what you mean.." I did. I knew exactly what she meant.

"Let me ask you this. This is a question that may have you not knowing the correct answer, but it may leave you with haunting memories. If you do not want to answer, I completely understand." I nodded, "—have you ever thought about suicide?"

This question hit me hard like a cement block. My mind felt like it was invaded by this psychiatrist, because that's exactly the hidden reason to why I agreed to show up to this appointment. I felt trapped. I needed to get some help. I wanted to leave all this pain and all my struggles behind and just be away. I found that sleeping is the only thing that stops the constant pressure in my head—and the thought of me being all alone all the time.

I didn't put much thought into answering and just let my mind take over, "I just feel like I really don't matter anymore. I guess what I'm saying is—I have. I—"

"The problem here is you overthink everything. You aren't seeing the best of the situation, or in any situation. You're taking the worst and turning it into something even more terrible. And your husband—Chris—he seems to love you a lot. He cares for you. Your new child on the way will need you. I'm not sure if he has one or not, but his little girl will miss you. This will clear you of pain but only create a whole other one deeper into your loved ones' emotional state. What stops you from killing yourself?"

"The realization that Chris wouldn't be able to move on without me. I'm not sure if I could make it without him. And Hannah, and my unborn son. Everything you say is true, but it's hard to take it into consideration whenever I think of myself as a failure. One day this cancer will take me away."

"Seeing things in a whole new light is something you and I and possibly even Chris need to work on together severely. Today and tomorrow is all you need to get prepared for. A year from now is three hundred and sixty five days away. Do not dwell over past memories or the way-to-far-away future. What are your coping mechanisms for this currently?"

"I use to skip radiation therapy only to give myself pain," I admitted in a hushed tone, "I didn't eat all the time. I lost all motivation to get up and be normal again at one point."

It was very quiet for the next five and a half minutes as she started flipping through a book on some random side table that was next to her.

"Where do we go from here?" I break the ice, making it not-so-terribly tense in the room any longer.

"Jonny—you seem like you have severe depression and anxiety about the fear of death. With your agreement, I will prescribe you some antidepressants to help you get motivated again. I want you to start them tomorrow." All the words she had just spoken to me at that point went in one ear and out of the other. This was nothing but complete utter bullshit.

She went on and told me everything about this sort of medicine and the side effects, and what to do if they make my depression works. She even had me get Chris to come in the room right when we were about to dismiss the appointment; she explained to him what topics we went over in our session and just a quick overview of what new pill I had to take daily.

*

I skipped taking the pills every morning. I made sure he had seen me stick it in my mouth—but after I got out of his sight I spit it in the garbage.

I don't want to crush him. I don't want to let them down. But God damn—I can't take this pain anymore. This isn't better. I'm not better and I will never get fucking better.