Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Comparing yourself to what is perceived as normal will always set you up for failure.
Still, the egotistical part of me—whether it be a natural or learned behaviour—doesn’t want to put the entirety of my issues on Brody.
“I’m good. It’s not a big deal.”
I wonder at what point a person can be called a pathological liar.
Because as we part ways and go to opposite ends of the apartment, I’m left alone in an empty room with no lock, crumpled sheets, and the memory of thinking Brody was Kyle.
Yeah, I’m so not getting any more sleep tonight.
Lucky sneaks in before I can close the door and makes herself comfortable on my bed.
“Nuh-uh, rodent. No way. Out.” I point.
She doesn’t move. All she does is knead my blanket and look at me through narrowed eyes as if to say, “Just try to kick me out.”
I allow it, but only because I know I’m not going to get any sleep.
“Stay at the foot of the bed, and I won’t make you leave.”
She keeps doing her thing, completely ignoring me.
I settle with my back against the headboard and wish social media wasn’t a cesspool. It’s times like this where my insomnia almost drives me to the cave of the evil that is Facebook and Twitter, but I haven’t had an account in years, and I don’t plan on going back anytime soon.
Hell, even Instagram is a no.
Snapchat? Fuck that.
During my recovery, all I saw on those sites were people posting about their happy lives. Granted, it’s social media, so chances are the mum who posts a million baby photos of their kid is probably suffering postpartum depression. The couple posting anniversary photos and thanking each other for being their soul mate and claiming happiness is on the brink of divorce. And anyone posting about how happy they are probably has a daily dose of Prozac.
That doesn’t stop me from seeing perfect lives that aren’t mine all over my screen. I don’t need that kind of negativity. It makes my anxiety worse, because not only do I have to worry about my triggers, I have to deal with the self-added pressure of making sure I’m as happy and normal as everyone else pretends to be.
I’d read through the news, but that’s just as bad. If the positive of fake happiness is bad, it’s even worse seeing the negative reality that is the news.
The news makes me realise how many survivors there are out there like me—that I’m not alone in my battle. I should take comfort in that, but I don’t, because I wouldn’t wish my experiences on anyone.
It seems domestic violence is all over the news these days.
Then there are the ones who don’t survive their ordeals. Whether their partners were more successful than Kyle or the aftermath is just too much for them to handle.
The ones who end their pain themselves are always the worst for me. Because I don’t need those suggestions put in my head.
Depression is a side effect of my anxiety. If I have an episode, the feeling of complete worthlessness seeps in. I believe I’m a waste of space and the world would be better off without me.
If it weren’t for Law, my rock, I could definitely see myself going down that path.
News articles are definitely out tonight. I’m not in the right headspace to be reading that shit. So I play some game apps, and when I get over that, I put on a relaxing playlist and lie back. For some reason, Lucky takes that as an invitation to climb onto my stomach.
“Hey, no, wait …”
The rumble of her purr vibrates against me, and it melts my cold, dead heart.
“You’re still a rodent,” I mumble and pat her head.
She seems cool with my assessment.
The sun will start coming up soon, and then Brody will be up and about.
I don’t want to face him. If I thought living together was going to be weird before, it’s amplified now. I know deep down this was inevitable, but now it’s here, I want anything to take last night back.
It’s five thirty when I hear Brody moving around the apartment. Maybe I’ll get some sleep once he’s gone to work.
I hate myself for not being able to blindly trust him, and I also hate that a stupid, useless lock has made me feel safe the last few weeks staying here. When I get the lock replaced, I already know I won’t have the security again knowing Brody can break the new lock just as easily as the first.
My bedroom door clicks open, and I sit upright, scaring Lucky. She jumps off me and makes a break for the exit.
“Shit, sorry,” Brody whispers. “I thought you’d be asleep. I wanted to check on you.”
I’m both touched by his gesture and uneasy. I like that he cares, but him letting himself into my room so quietly I wouldn’t hear it if I was actually asleep is not cool.