WP EXCLUSIVE | old/unedited | #1 in freetheboy, traumacore, boyscrytoo, and cynicism | Genre(s): realistic, psychological, new adult fiction.
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Eighteen-year-old Tyler Petrit is tired. He's tired of his drug-addicted father always blaming him f...
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A/N: Happy 2024! I realize it's been nearly a year since the last update, and that's unacceptable, but I'm back now. I finally finished college and got a new phone. Hopefully people still remember this story. Enjoy (thanks for over 6000 reads)! The next update is planned for Valentine's Day.
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SEPTEMBER
"So, today I woke up and felt like shit. I puked up breakfast today even though I tried not to. And I had one cigarette...two. I took them from Bianca."
Dr. Hudson sits with his hands softly clasped. Something about it puts me on edge. It's like he's trying his best to seem chill, open, maybe even comforting. There's this little voice in the back of my head, though, telling me that this is fake. It's what he's supposed to do and he doesn't actually care, over and over again. "What was going through your mind in those moments?" he asks. Simple. Direct. Neutral on the surface.
I keep talking, words that squeeze between my lips having the same texture of vomit. Slick, slimy, watery. "I was thinking about my DUI charge, how it's all official and shit. I tried to call my ex to talk things out, but she didn't answer. I felt like a failure again. Now I'm mad at myself for not eating in the same way I get mad at myself when I do eat. Is recovery just relapsing and then starting over forever?" One of my greatest fears is out in the open. All he has to do is pick it apart.
"You have to treat every day like day one, as a new day. A lot of people feel how you're feeling because they treat their recovery like a record they have to break. When they relapse, they usually feel shame and give up. Then, the cycle repeats. Don't let one setback define you."
The cycle repeats. Abuse, addiction, bad health. Seemingly no way out.
My greatest fear is not just humanity, not just tight or enclosed spaces, not just myself. It's the cycle, and remaining in it.
A tight, enclosed space, consisting of nothing but myself inside my own head, with spontaneous inserts from the outside.
"But day one was torture. Also, do I have to keep doing the journal? Talking about it verbally feels better than writing. I looked at the one thing I wrote in the journal before and it made me feel...weird, I guess? The last thing I wrote with intent was a suicide note."
"Do you think you connect writing with how you were feeling then?"
"Yeah, probably. I like talking more, but I know there aren't going to be people to talk to all the time and that's where the writing comes in. Maybe I'll keep trying it. I don't know. I tried getting over my claustrophobia like you said to. Talking helped me get through that."
"Oh, yes. How did that go? What were you thinking as it was happening?"
"I'm going to have to have more exposure, obviously. But my breathing immediately felt restricted even though it wasn't. My mind was going all over the place, but there were other people in the room with me, who I trusted, y'know? I, uh, broke through it."
