Invisible String | Lovertation

November 20

tw: mention of sh, mention of suicide, mention of abuse

I just got out of the hospital, and now I'm being forced against my will to go to therapy. By my mom. Rightfully so, I guess. If my daughter tried to kill herself, I'd probably do the same thing.

Not that it matters. Therapy isn't going to fix me. It won't change the fact that I don't want to be here. It won't erase everything I've done, everything I've lost. It won't make Lover look at me the way she used to, like I was someone worth knowing.

Speaking of Lover—we're talking again. Barely. It's not the same. I don't think it ever will be. I guess that's just what happens when you promise your best friend you'll stop drinking and don't. When you lie to the one person who actually gave a shit.

I'm still in that stage after attempting suicide where I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want people looking at me like I'm some broken thing they have to fix. I don't want my mom crying every time she looks at me. I don't want people telling me they're "glad I'm okay." I don't want to be okay.

But I still have to go to therapy.

I don't bother changing out of what I've been wearing since I got out of the hospital two days ago—a black hoodie and gray sweatpants. I barely brushed my hair. I don't care. It's not like I'm here to impress anyone.

The therapy center smells like stale coffee and something too clean, like disinfectant trying to cover up something worse. I don't belong here.

A tall woman with dark brown hair and tan skin walks into the waiting area, holding a clipboard. She scans the room before her eyes land on me.

"Reputation?" Her voice is calm, professional.

I stand up, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket. I don't correct her. No one calls me by my full name. No one except therapists (apparently) and my mom when she's pissed.

She leads me down a hallway into a small office. It's got the usual therapy shit in it—soft lighting, a couch that's probably supposed to make people feel comfortable, a chair across from it where she sits. A bookshelf full of self help books no one actually wants to read.

I sit down, slouching into the couch, my arms crossed. I start picking at my cuticles, my leg bouncing. I don't want to be here.

She notices. Of course she fucking notices. Without a word, she reaches over to a little basket on the side table and hands me something—a small, spiky ball, one of those fidget toys.

I hesitate, but I take it. I roll it between my fingers, letting the tiny spikes press into my skin.

"I'm Ella," she says, clicking her pen open. "I know that this is your first session, so I just want to start by saying there's no pressure. You can share as much or as little as you want. This is your space, okay?"

I nod, not really believing her.

She watches me for a second, and then she leans back in her chair. "So. Tell me, how did this all start?"

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. "Jesus. That is a loaded question."

Ella doesn't relax. She just waits.

I exhale, still rolling the spiky ball between my fingers. "I mean, technically, I guess it started when I was thirteen and my dad tried to kill me."

Ella's face barely changes, but I see the way her hand tightens slightly around the pen. "That's... a lot," she says after a moment. "Can you tell me more about that?"

I shrug. "Not much to tell. He was abusive. Always was. He'd hit me, scream at me, tell me I was useless, that kind of shit. One day, I was mouthing off to my mom, and he lost it. Started yelling, getting in my face. Next thing I knew, he had a knife." I glance at her. "You can probably guess the rest."

She doesn't say anything right away. Just nods, like she's letting me sit with it. Like she's not going to rush me.

I look away, gripping the ball tighter. "After that, I started drinking. Started smoking. Started cutting." I laugh a little, but it comes out humorless. "Typical fucked-up kid shit."

Ella tilts her head slightly. "And how long did that go on?"

I shift in my seat. "Years. My best friend, Lover, found out about the drinking and the smoking. Never the cutting, though. She begged me to stop. She didn't get it. I tried to tell her it was the only thing that made everything numb. But she just—she wouldn't fucking listen."

Ella nods. "That must've been frustrating."

I scoff. "Yeah, you could say that."

"What happened next?"

I take a deep breath. "When I was sixteen, my dad got out of jail. My mom moved us away. Lover made me promise I'd stop drinking and smoking. And I promised. But, you know. I lied."

I can feel Ella watching me, but I don't look at her. I just keep rolling the ball in my hands, pressing the spikes deeper into my palm.

"When I moved back, me and Lover reconnected. Things were good. Almost like old times. Until she found out I hadn't stopped. She was pissed. I mean, rightfully so, I guess. We got into a huge fight. That's when she found out I used to cut." My voice gets quieter. "She blocked me."

Ella's quiet for a moment. Then, softly, she asks, "How did that make you feel?"

I laugh, even though nothing about this is funny. "Like shit. She was my only friend. So, my logic was—if I don't have any friends, what's the fucking point?"

Ella doesn't flinch at my words. Doesn't give me that pitying look people always give. She just sits there, waiting. Letting me process.

I swallow. "And... yeah. You know the rest."

For a few moments, there's silence. Not awkward silence—just space.

Then Ella speaks. "You said you used to cut. You don't anymore?"

I shake my head. "No, I stopped right after I moved back. Well, I mean, I did start again right before I tried to kill myself. But yeah, I stopped."

"What made you stop?"

I stare down at the spiky ball in my hands. "I wanted a fresh start. I wanted to be different." My voice is flat. "I thought if I left all that shit behind, I could... I don't know. Be someone new."

Ella nods like that makes sense. "You wanted to heal."

I scoff. "I wanted to pretend like none of it ever happened."

Ella leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. "Rep, I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I'm going to say it anyway."

I finally look at her.

"You went through hell," she says, voice steady. "And instead of dealing with it, you tried to survive the only way you knew how. But survival mode isn't meant to last forever." She pauses. "What you did—it doesn't make you weak. It doesn't make you broken. And it sure as hell doesn't mean you don't deserve to be here."

I look away again, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Ella lets the silence settle for a moment before she speaks again. "I know you don't want to be here," she says. "I know you don't think this will help. But I also know that somewhere, deep down, a part of you wants to believe it can. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here at all."

I don't say anything. I don't know if I believe her.

But for the first time in a long time, I don't immediately shut the thought down.

authors note: sorry this one is short, i didn't have much to write about. but i have big plans ;)