The Journal
The Journal
written by dornish queen
Characters: left ambiguous
DO NOT READ UNTIL YOU HAVE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS; IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO ANYTHING IN THE WARNINGS, I STRONGLY ADVISE YOU NOT TO READ
Trigger Warnings: suicide ideation, extreme emotions and grief, depression, therapy
Notes: No character models were used; no celebrity featured. I was going to write in Pedro as the boyfriend, but with the topic being dark, I didn’t want to associate this with anyone specific. So, characters are ambiguous.
Today was a particularly bad day. Although it started out fine, things just started to curve to the left. If things were to go as planned, my therapy session would have started promptly at 8:00.
8:05. No call. That’s okay. The therapist is usually a little late.
8:10. She’s probably just finishing up with another client. Am I a client or a patient?
8:15. Let me message her. We must be having phone issues or something. That has to be it.
8:30. I message her and let her know that I’m sorry. Today just might not be a good day to talk. But Hey! Maybe next week will work out better.
My message sounded more upbeat than I felt and I don’t know why I felt the need to apologize. But I did. I always apologize.
Today doesn’t have to be a bust, I tell myself. Nevertheless, it slowly turns. My brain starts to feel tired and agitated about the littlest, insignificant things. And then the little things I do to cheer me up don’t work. Pictures that normally make me smile don’t. Things that are coming up that, normally, I am excited about…I don’t care if I ever experience them. That’s where I’m at right now. It’s despair with a teaspoon of anger. Anger with people and anger at myself because my thoughts and reasoning make no sense to me.
It’s the thoughts of the gun the soothes the mind. Or swimming out into the ocean as far as I can and not come back. That’s the thought that calms and brings peace.
I hear my therapist’s voice in my head telling me that these thoughts never really go away, but understand that I think that it’s a reality, but it’s not.
And so, I sit here and try to be kind to myself for having these thoughts…
You drop the pen on the coffee table and see him glance away quickly. You close the journal and put on your best smile before going over to see what he’s up to in the kitchen. You wrap your arms around his waist and lean against his back as you breathe in what he’s cooking.
“Smells great. I had no idea I was living with Gordon Ramsey.” You uttered.
He normally doesn’t cook, but he’s got to be quite good at it lately with all the meals he has been making for you.
“Angel Hair pasta with meatballs.” He said excitedly as he lifted the lid off the pan to show you.
“That doesn’t look too bad at all!”
“I made the balls extra big,” he said mischievously, with that adorable crooked smile. “Just the way you like it.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle. What a devil he is. What a boyish, adorable devil!
As you set the table, you heard the unmistakable pop of a wine bottle.
“Oh babe! I get to have wine?” you asked surprised. It had been a while since you drank. That night in fact.
“I thought a little bit would be okay, since I’m here.” He smiled at you. “And you promised that you would eat.”
You notice that he doesn’t fill your glass as high as his, but that’s to be expected, you told yourself.
He fixes your plate with the perfect swirl of pasta. That tang of the marinara agreed with your stomach today. You didn’t feel nauseous at making yourself eat. Not like you normally do.
Maybe because you never felt judged when you’re with him. He never frowned at you for not having the will to eat. Only encouraged you to try, if only it was just a little bit. And you know he won’t be disappointed if you don’t finish that whole plate of pasta, he just gave you.
All through dinner, you see him glancing over at your journal. You have this agreement, that you would let him have access to read it. You promised that what you wrote would be truthful, but he was still supposed to ask first.
He hasn’t asked yet and you start to wonder why. Your mind starts to wander. Thinking too much again. Maybe this is too much for him? You’ve become too much of a burden. Best to cut him loose. Don’t make someone else suffer because YOU have issues.
You felt his hand reach across the table to grasp yours tenderly. You didn’t realize you had stopped eating and your other hand was wiping tears from the side of your face.
“Hey…” his voice so soft, still holding your hand.
You look up and see his beautiful smile and the crinkly eyes you love so much. Not a shroud of anger or disappointment.
“Is it okay if I read this now?” he says as he glances over to your journal. “Can I stay in the room with you while I read?”
You nod your head. That’s all you’re capable of doing at the moment.
He brings you over to the sofa and you curl up next to him. You feel his arm around you as you lean your head against his shoulder. You bring your knees up to your chest as you wound yourself up tight like a ball. The flipping noise of the pages seem so loud to your ears and all you can think of are your words. Where do they come from? If all of this is coming from your brain, then why does your heart hurt so much? The fact that this doesn’t make sense to you, makes you more upset.
A new set of fresh tears stream down your face and you let out a grieved moan. You didn’t know that he had finished reading until you feel both his arms wrap around you.
You feel his fingers moving your tear drenched hair away from your face. His lips kissing you gently, not letting you go. He doesn’t ask you questions about what you wrote. He doesn’t tell you how to feel. He gives you your moment to feel what you need to feel.
His silence speaks volumes.