Gaslighter

epilogue

EPILOGUE

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2022

          I decided that the way to best prevent a relapse would be to place physical distance between me and Chase.

          It wouldn't solve the biggest underlying issues—namely my addiction to self-destructive behaviors and horrifying fear of the unknown—but it made me feel better in a way only a temporary fix could. After the clean break, after all the horrible things I'd said and that I knew I couldn't regret, I knew I'd have to physically step away from everything that reminded me of him if I wanted to make it right by myself.

          It hadn't been easy, not when I was covered in reminders of him from head to toe, even in my bloodstream and deep within my bones, but I had to make it work somehow. I also knew I'd have to go back at some point, being too big of a homebody to leave permanently, but also because the city was one of those things that stuck with you for the rest of your life, inescapable. That was fine by me. The city hadn't been the culprit for my heartbreak and it wasn't responsible for my subsequent attempts at rebuilding and rewiring.

          I couldn't escape the city and I didn't want to, but, if I had to carry Chase and his damage for an unknown period of time, I needed to take it elsewhere. I couldn't allow for it to continue corroding my city any longer, and I needed to breathe. As far as I knew, he would still be leaving for California, which meant the required distance had to be even bigger than what I had originally anticipated.

          It was how I had ended up renting a seaside cottage in Scotland.

          Though it was early summer, it rained more than I thought possible, which forced me to stay indoors most of the time, but it kept me distracted. I'd been writing, mostly streams of consciousness, but it was a decent way to keep my head clear and devoid of painful thoughts. I'd been seeing a therapist weekly, too, and had somehow found the strength to be fully honest for once in my life.

          Being in a coastal town somewhere in Scotland—I'd tried to pronounce it a few times, but failed miserably every time—had required adjustments, some easier than others. I wasn't as malleable as I'd spent years pretending to be and I needed my strict routines to keep me afloat, but it still served as a reminder of why I was staying there and what I had waiting for me back home. I didn't want to return until I felt strong enough to handle the pressure of having my short film adapted to the big screen, which involved meetings, edits, and auditions, so I wanted—and needed—to be at the top of my game.

          I couldn't risk having my father and his crew think I wasn't strong enough to handle it. I would show up, behave like a mature adult, and would prove to them I was more than capable of keeping things separate. Though Girlhood was a deeply personal project and contained an entire piece of myself, I needed people to see and acknowledge that was exactly what made it appealing and, therefore, worth taking a risk on.

          Sometimes, it felt more like exploiting my heartbreak for the sake of entertainment. Other times—and it was mortifying to me to admit it—I felt myself crumbling under the unbearable guilt of exploiting Chase and private aspects of our relationships, even ones I hadn't commented about publicly around my parents, Ingrid, and Savannah. It was easy to feel that way and, though it sounded contradictory, it also brought an old sense of familiarity, as that had been the most prevalent emotion coursing through my brain throughout the relationship—that and fear.

          Every time I felt myself slipping back into those dangerous thought patterns, I held on to the objective facts I knew to be true. Chase had irrevocably hurt me, ruined my life, and blamed it all on me—my immaturity, my ineptitude, my last name, my failure to immediately disclose my age and where I went to college that first night at the speakeasy—and had demanded too much from me. I hadn't asked for too much by wanting to be loved.