TW - panic attack, accidental self injury (avi fractures his wrist), mention of eating difficulties

Chapter 8

“Avi, you have to try and eat something. It’s been two days - this isn’t healthy at all,” Sam tries to reason with me, probably worried that I’ve developed an eating disorder or something. I haven’t, I just can’t keep any food down right now.

“Maybe you should go to a therapist,” Sam says out of nowhere, instantly filling me with panic. He and Joyce have tried to convince me to try therapy before, but the very thought of talking to anyone about my parents makes me want to throw up and then die on the spot.

“Joyce and I did a little research, and we found a really lovely young woman who might really be able to help you. She does house visits, and we booked her to come here in a few hours.”

“What the fuck?!” I didn’t mean to shout, but being forced into therapy sounds like terrible shitty idea. “Why would you organise that without even telling me until now! Just because I can’t eat anything right now- like what the hell am I supposed to even talk to her about? Recite to her that my parents died and how I feel like I should’ve got on that fucking place with them?! Or maybe you think it’d be a grand idea to talk about how I got locked in a freezer if I misbehaved - sure, that’ll go fucking swimmingly,” I yell sarcastically. 

Sam takes a step back, his hands up to show me that he’s backing off, before changing his mind. “You know what, Avi? Yes, you should talk to her about that. All of that. You need help and if you’re not able to help yourself then someone has to do it for you, and even if you can’t quite see it yet, Joyce and I care about you so much and we will not stand by and watch you in so much pain, with no end in sight. So please, for god’s sake- no, for your parents’ sake, because they would hate to see you like this - please just try therapy. Please try to get better.”

I can’t fucking believe him. Sam pulled the parent card. It makes me feel like such utter shit, and I know he didn’t mean for me to feel like this, but it doesn’t matter. All I can think about is how my parents are gone, and to top it off - they wouldn’t be proud of me like this at all.

They would be so fucking upset.

And I have always lived for them. To make them happy, to make them proud.

But I don’t fucking want to anymore. They left me all alone, and the last three years of my life have been so fucking awful, so why the fuck should I do anything for the benefit of two dead people whose absence is the very reason I feel like this?

But if my parents aren’t my reason for still being here, then…what is?

Should I even still be here?

I snap back to reality, my throat feeling raw as choked sobs escape my throat. My cheeks are damp with tears as Sam hugs me tightly, holding me so securely that I can barely move. I’m hunched over on the floor, so I must have collapsed at some point. Another strangled cry rips from my throat and I try to explain to Sam that I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

When did this happen?

Sam is in front of me, holding me and stroking my back as I grab onto his hand, a twinge of pain in my other wrist. Trying to explain that I can’t breathe, I let out a strangled few words before choking on them, tears still streaming from my eyes.

Joyce throws my door open, her face extremely pale. “What happened? I heard screaming!” 

Oh. I was screaming? When? When I fazed out, probably. 

And then Sam and Joyce are bustling me into the car and driving me somewhere, but it’s like I can’t stay focused enough to even talk, right up until we pull up outside a hospital, and I’m frogmarched inside with Sam and Joyce on either side of me.

I faze out some more as they take me to the A&E section, and only then does it start to dawn on me that my right wrist is broken. Did I do that? How the fuck did I even manage that? No way I did that. I mean I often need to crack my wrists and I do put them at some pretty fucked up angles because I’m hyper mobile in my wrists and knees and shit, but there’s no way I managed to break my wrist, right?

“A slight fracture, and in a few weeks you’ll be fine. How did this happen again?” The doctor asks, and I let out a sigh. Not broken. A small fracture - that’s fine. Manageable. Looking over to Sam for an explanation, I make sure to listen this time as Sam explains how this injury came to be.

By the sounds of it, I was trying to crack my wrists, but I put way too much force into it and et voila, now I’m at A&E. Yay.

With my wrist in a cast, Joyce, Sam and I sit in silence all the way back home, arriving in perfect time for that lovely aforementioned therapy appointment. 

But now I’m really beginning to see why Sam wants me to go to therapy.

So I get to know my new therapist for a bit, talking about random things, and I eventually bring up how I apparently managed to fracture my wrist out of what - blind rage? Or panic? And then I tell her about how I can’t eat anything without throwing it up, and she asks when the last time I ate and didn’t throw it up was, and I explain that it was three evenings ago.

That is pretty bad, huh.

And interestingly, she doesn’t tell me to just try eating something again, and instead suggests I try a smoothie or a milkshake or something. Anything to get some form of nutrients into my body.

By the end of the session, I don’t feel as shit as before. I feel extremely numb - have ever since I kind of ‘woke up’ from whatever the fuck happened when I started screaming and crying and having a full on breakdown earlier. 

But at least if I’m feeling numb, then that’s better than feeling shit.

—————

I take the rest of the week off school, and end up seeing my therapist every day. She’s friendly, and actually goes about this in a different way to what I expected. The smoothie suggestion helped, so at least I’ve been able to consume something now. We’re just currently trying to work on the imminent issue - how I apparently had the biggest mental breakdown/panic attack thing and fractured my wrist.

And eventually, I tell her what I was thinking, when it happened. About not living for my parents, and feeling so lost and angry and upset. And she gave me a suggestion.

“Avi, maybe it’s time to do what you want. Do you want to do well in your studies? If you do, that’s fine - you can start slowly putting in more effort, maybe taking notes in some lessons. But if that’s not what you want, then who cares? Give up on the lessons. Do what you do want to do. Try something new, find a hobby, something you’re passionate about. Something you love. I can’t see you tomorrow because it’s my brothers’ birthday, so until I see you next - can you find one thing you enjoy?” Amelia asks, and I actually agree.

Maybe it is time I find something I actually care about. I’ve been so fixated on my parents my whole life, even after they passed away. I’ve felt so hopeless and useless for so long, but I can do this. 

I can start again, and start slowly building my life back up, from the base. 

I can do this.