The Bikini Syndrome | WATTYS2019

» forty: amends

The thing about change was that it didn't come like a tidal wave. It was more like watching the clouds meander across the sky on a sunny day, or pouring honey into an empty glass: slow, frustrating, and seemingly pointless.

Ironically, this was what Holly discovered almost immediately.

After telling Dr. Inho almost everything, including making her resolution to wanting to change, Holly realized that not much had really changed about her situation.

She complained about this to Dr. Inho in the next meeting. The therapist laughed gently. "But something has changed," she said. "You have. You admitted to wanting help. That's a great first step."

But that was too vague of an answer for Holly. She thought that Dr. Inho would maybe prescribe her more medication or give her some kind of doctor's manual on the steps to take to recover from whatever it was that Holly was messed up with. Like, maybe she should start eating more carbs, or..throw away all her toothbrushes.

The latter didn't sound very hygienic, but at least it felt like a solution.

Dr. Inho's answer to that was: "You weren't taking the medication in the first place. Are you about to start now?"

Holly had to admit she wasn't. She felt like taking the medication would just...make her situation feel more real, like holding up a sign that said, Yes, I'm a certified hot mess.

But Holly also knew that Dr. Inho had prescribed the medication to her for a reason. It was meant to help her, not harm her. So she'd have to swallow her pride — literally — at some point. But for the moment, Holly was trying other methods.

She started that nightmare journal that Dr. Inho had asked her too. At first, it kind of sucked writing everything she was dreaming about. Sometimes she couldn't even remember what it had been about, she only knew she'd been terrified and wanted to wake up.

But something about writing down her nightmares helped her feel calmer afterwards. As if she were wrestling with her inner demons and finally caging them with a Papermate gel pen. It allowed her to put them into perspective, as well. In the margins of one of the journal pages, she had written:

You are only a nightmare. You are not real. So suck that, Rohan.

The nightmares didn't exactly stop. But when she woke up in the morning, Holly didn't feel as terrified anymore. She just felt a little weary, as if she'd fought a long battle, only to come to a stalemate. But at least it was something.

The other big change was talking.

The c-word: communication.

Holly had never thought herself terrible at it, but she realized that over the last few months, she had become more withdrawn. Not in an obvious manner. She had laughed at jokes, even made a few herself. Talked about trivial things like clothes and grades and boys. But she had held in everything that mattered.

She had hidden the fact that she wasn't eating like normal.

She had hidden the fact that she wasn't taking her meds.

She had hidden the fact that she had felt guilty and resentful and fearful.

She had hidden the fact that she had nightmares every night.

She had hidden the fact that she didn't feel like she would ever get better.

All these things had festered inside of her, like trash in an emotional landfill.

Well, they're not exactly things you can bring up in a normal conversation, inner Holly thought snidely.

While that was true, Holly didn't have to be a therapist to know that part of her problem had been being afraid to talk about it. Or even acknowledge her feelings. At all.