Playing With Fire || d.h

83. Kicking it Doesn't Help

Your POV

"If I stay here one more day, I am going to fucking murder someone."

One week later, I'm still stuck in the hospital. Not only because of the physical distress my body is attempting to heal, but also the fact that my mental health has completely deteriorated.

Bryce, who has been my nurse everyday so far, chuckles as he draws my blood, something I've grown incredibly annoyed of. "I mean, I think if you did that, you'd only be kept here longer," he responds.

"No, because they'd send me to prison, hopefully," I grumble.

"Well, at least you have people visiting you everyday," he replies. "Every time that boyfriend of yours shows up, your face completely lights up."

I sigh heavily. "He's not my boyfriend. At least, not anymore."

"Try telling him that," Bryce responds, standing up and patting me in the shoulder. "By the way, you're meeting with the psychiatrist at three."

I roll my eyes as he leaves. Yes, Dan has come to visit me every single day, but the behavior between us has been completely platonic. I still hadn't grown the balls to bring up the elephant in the room, and I think we're putting it off until I'm in a better place.

That is, if he even wants to discuss it. For all I know, he's now completely repulsed by the idea of dating me.

Who can blame him?

I struggle out of bed, which in itself can take up to five minutes. I had been going to physical therapy everyday, and I was becoming stronger, but it was still nearly impossible. I use the bathroom, and stand in front of the mirror. I make a valiant attempt of pulling my hair into a ponytail, but I can't move my arms high enough, and decide to just leave it down. As I step out of the bathroom, an elderly lady I don't recognize leans against the closed door.

"Who're you?" I ask bluntly, frozen in my tracks.

"I'm Dr. Marie. Please, have a seat," she says, motioning to my bed.

"I mean, considering it's my room, I was planning on doing that anyway," I retort, sitting in my bed and pushing the button until I'm seated at around an eighty degree angle. I used to be shy around doctors, but I realized a long time ago it's more efficient to be up front with them.

"Okay, so...you came in here after a situation of physical domestic abuse?" She asks, narrowing her eyes as she reads from her clipboard.

"Yeah," I answer.

"And...this has happened on more than one occasion?" She looks up at me, and I nod my head. "So, you struggle with depression, generalized anxiety, PTSD, suicidal ideation, and anorexia?"

"And substance abuse," I add. It still irks me that some doctors don't act like addiction is a mental illness.

"Okay...so, with the damage that had been done, if tour body had been in a healthy state, you most likely would have been discharged. However, you were severely malnourished, and due to your mental illness relapse, you could be considered a danger to yourself."

I roll my eyes, mainly because everything she's saying, I've heard a thousand times before. "Uh, huh," I reply bluntly.

"You've been eating all your meals since you've gotten here?" I nod my head. "Has that been a struggle for you?"

"Yup."

"Have you had the urge to hurt yourself, or anyone else?"

"Not really, no."