Page 51 of Beyond Repair: Part Two
Chapter 30
Nina
My most recent panic episode has caused a problem. More than one, actually. At the moment, telling the guys about my intrusive thoughts seemed like the right thing to do. Now, not so much.
I didn't even tell them about some of the really awful ones, and I'm glad I didn't. Some things just shouldn't be said out loud to anyone but a therapist.
Speaking of...
Slamming my laptop closed, I groan and flop back onto the large rug in my bedroom. I'm aware my mind is a scary place, but apparently awareness isn't good enough.
At least according to my therapist, who threw me for a loop when she said,"Now that you know yourself so well, Nina, how do you change the things you don't find helpful?"
CanI don't freaking know, please tell mebe an answer? Apparently not.
Five days ago, when I was throwing up and cowering away from the men I love was a big sign that I haven't been dealing with my issues. So now I've amped up my therapy sessions totwice a week. It's exhausting and makes me feel terrible because the last time I did this was years ago.
I can't be as bad as I was after getting out of the psych ward. I'm supposed to be better.
Dishes clank in the kitchen downstairs, and my mom laughs loud enough to echo through the air vents. I'll go down for family dinner soon, but I have to process all my processing.
We, my counselor and I, came to the realization that Ridge being gone for a few days triggered me. It was like taking some of my security blanket away from me, leaving part of me vulnerable.
Vulnerability in a time like this, where I feel like luck is running out, is not a good thing. My therapist wants me to bring the guys in for a group session, but I'm not ready for that.
It's nice to have a space where my trauma can come out freely without worry of judgment or hurting others.
Which is exactly what happened five days ago. I'll never forget the look on their faces when I explained a little about what goes on in my mind when I get really low. Maybe I should have sugarcoated the extent of my dark thoughts, but I was exhausted and felt guilty for my behavior already.
I can't believe I was scared of them.
A tear drop tickles my temple, and I hastily wipe it away. Good thing too, because a knock at my door comes a second later, then my mom enters.
"Hey, sweetie."
I keep staring at the ceiling. "Hi, Mom."
A blanket hits the ground next to my head. Mom sits on it, hovering above me with a small frown tugging on her eyebrows. "How was the session today?"
"Just fine." I've never liked talking about therapy. "I'm really sorry."
Her head cocks. "What for?"
My lip wobbles as I think about all the things I could list off. "I moved out to give you space, and yet you're always here because I'mstillthe opposite of normal and independent."
She sighs and pulls out her phone, confusing the heck out of me. So I reach for the device to see what she's doing, but she tsks at me. "I'm texting your dad to bring us dinner and a bottle of wine. I think a girls’ night is in order. Don't you?"
"I can't drink," I remind her. She nods and maybe pouts a little, remembering my concussion.
I didn't realize I needed time with my mom until this exact moment. A horrible, depressing weight lifts off of me. When my dad enters my room with two plates of nachos and Ridge follows with one glass and the bottle Mom requested, I feel all floaty.
With a small smile and a sweet kiss on my lips, Ridge murmurs that he'll see me in a little while.
"Stop staring at his butt," Mom whisper-hisses, but when I look over, she's doing the exact same thing to Dad.
For what feels like the first time in forever, I roll my eyes and reach for my dinner without prompting.
Maybe this is just what my therapist ordered.
