Fading In The Rain | Bughead

33: "Feels Like Forever"

TW: trauma, self harm, mental illness, therapy, medication, eating disorder

Song Credit: "hostage" by Billie Eilish

Today brings forth a new chapter. The chapter I stop harming and start healing. I never thought those words would be written on these sheets. I never thought those thoughts would flood my mind. I also never thought I'd be brave enough to reveal my mind to him, but alas here we are, him beside me as I print the words. I'd always considered this a forbidden aspect of myself. Uncharted territory; the West Wing of Betty Cooper. But, here we are, who would've thought.

That's what we wrote. I remember feeling a little embarrassed at my verbiage, mainly because I write more profoundly than I speak when given the chance. Everything explained thus far feels like it was so long ago, yet I remember it so vividly. It feels like forever since it happened, but typing it feels like nostalgic deja vu. I'm just thankful that I don't relieve the trauma, whether it be from Archie or my own self-destruction.

I do, however, relive Jughead holding me, kissing me, telling me he loves me everyday. He never stopped. I never stopped loving him either, so I guess it works out. I really meant it when I said I was going to stop harming. It was a commitment that usually would seem so out of reach. But now something was different. I was tired of being tragic and moping around. I was bored of it. It was getting old

I never really considered medication again until that day in Pop's where I bared my soul open to him. Now it didn't seem like such a bad idea, I just didn't want what I used to take. Just thinking about those nasty pills left my mouth dry and head aching. Then again Jughead also said that we could try to find another prescription. But the thing with prescriptions is that they have to be prescribed...by a doctor.

I was never big on doctors; being in check-ups or hospitals always made me uncomfortable. When I was around 12, I stopped crying when I got shots; the pain just didn't faze me anymore like it used to. I was 14 when my mom first brought me to a psychologist. She said that it would "fix me" and that I would be "cured." I spent .2 seconds believing she was right. I went by force, not by want. 

I get that my mom didn't want me like this. Hell, no one wants to feel like this. But the only reason she made me someone else's problem was because she needed to maintain her perfect dollhouse family. So when my sister went crazy she was sent away. Now that the other one was discovered to also be crazy, mom started believing that she was too. Now, we can't have that, can we now? Of course not. So for an hour every Wednesday, I was no longer her problem.

Therapy started very awkwardly. I didn't know what I was supposed to say. I felt like I was in a Netflix horror movie. Like there was a hidden camera with people watching in a projection room or something. I felt insane. The way the therapist spoke to me was so...odd. Like I wasn't quite human. She always gave a small smile, like she herself was trying to stay positive. The starting dialogue was always the same, it never changed.

"How are you, Betty?"

"I'm fine."

"If you were fine, you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't look so nervous."

"I'm not crazy."

"Who said you are?"

"It doesn't matter."

"What else do you think doesn't matter?"

And by that time, I'd usually shut up. Shift uncomfortably in my sheet, still crossing my arms and holding my elbow. What was the most unnerving was the diagnoses, the constant prescription changes, or dosage shifts. Yeah, sure, doc. Shoot me up with everything you could find at Walgreen's, nothing is going to change. And I always knew when the "news" was coming. Every two weeks I was named a new condition.

"Betty, you've been diagnosed with severe depression."

"I'm sorry to say, but you've been found to have moderate to severe anxiety."

"Miss Cooper, after sorting it out,  I've found all the signs point to anorexia."

"The best thing to categorize this as is bulimia."

"Your condition is called Hypersomnia. It's like reverse insomnia. Does that make sense?"

And no, that doesn't make sense. The one thing that always threw me was how I always acted. I was concrete. Her questions sometimes hit me straight in the chest and left me breathless, but I never cried. It was easy to tell that I was crying before I stepped into her office, though. My eyes were always dry and glossed over, my voice was always either cracked or fried. I didn't know what this time taking meds would be like, but I was willing to try. Maybe it could work.