E. Montes - Perfectly Damaged

Logan brings both hands to my face and forces me to look at him. “You are never going to do that again.” I nod, agreeing with him. “I’m serious, Jenna. If you ever feel that way again, if you ever feel the urge to harm yourself, come to me. Okay? I’d lose my fuckin’ mind if I ever lost you.”

“I’ll try,” I say truthfully. That’s a promise I can never truly keep. When I’m triggered, pulled under and dragged into a dark place, it’s difficult for me to come out of it. He presses his lips to my forehead, and then brings my head to lie on his shoulder.

“After Brooke found me, I was taken to the ER,” I go on. “I was evaluated and placed on suicide watch in the psych ward. Then my parents felt it was best to send me away for a few months.”

“You were taken to Brandy Mental Health?”

I shake my head. “No. My parents never told me about my grandmother. So I’m sure keeping me far away from Brandy was for a good reason. I was taken to a small, private ‘rehabilitation’ retreat, as my parents called it. They told family and friends I needed a break from all the stress of school and such.” I roll my eyes. “But honestly, I didn’t fight it. I let them take me there and I signed the admissions paperwork.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew I was burden to all of them, so I didn’t fight them on it. And at that point I was desperate to get better. The therapist at the retreat told my parents that because I was aware of my illness and willing to work on getting better, my chances of recovery were high.”

“I don’t understand the recovery process,” Logan states, confusion evident in his tone. “I’ve heard of people who recover from drug and alcohol abuse and self-harm. How does someone recover from a mental illness?”

I draw small circles in the palm of his hand, allowing the comfort and calm to wash over me as I talk about my illness with him. “I know it’s hard to believe. The word recover is sort of a misnomer. Someone who’s recovering isn’t miraculously cured. Just like an addict, sometimes when things get rough, it feels uncontrollable and they relapse. Think of it that way. I could relapse at any time.

“But with the proper treatment, good eating habits, and exercise—and most importantly a support team—there’s a strong chance I can beat this. I’ve read stories of some people who were able to stop taking medication altogether without suffering from the hallucinations or delusions. And I did. For about a year, actually.”

Logan shifts. I lift my head and meet his gaze. His eyes brighten with hope. “You were able to cope and deal with it without medication?” I nod in response. “Well, that’s good, right? I mean that means you’ll be able to again. Right?” he urges.

I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

His brows crease then relax with understanding. “You relapsed.”

“I did. Ten months ago, when Brooke died. It was difficult for me. See, before I only suffered from hearing voices. But I had my first hallucination about a month after her death.”

“Of what?”

“Her.”

Logan pulls his head back. “Brooke?”

“Yeah.” I lower my head, ashamed. “My therapist said it had to do with the tragic loss. For most individuals, the loss of a loved one is an excruciating pain and they grieve, eventually moving on. But someone who already suffers from psychosis, someone like myself, tends to deal with things differently. Not everyone with my condition would have had the reaction I did. People with psychosis all have different triggers and such. But for me, I couldn’t accept the fact that she was gone.

“Brooke was everything to me. She was my rock. She kept me on my toes. She cared for me, and never once did she make me feel like I was different. She always encouraged me, told me I could be a famous artist or a politician or a teacher. Whatever I wanted to be in life, in her eyes I was capable of being it. When others saw the glass half empty, she saw it three quarters of the way full. She was one of those annoying people who was always quirky but happy.” I laugh, tears welling at the rim of my eyes.

“If you told her an image was ugly, she’d look at you as if you were nuts and show you how beautiful the picture truly was by pointing out details, the nuances in the color, the shading, the texture, the meaning behind it. Showing you that flaws could be stunning and intriguing and mind-blowing—that was Brooke. At the end, you’d be inspired by the portrait and even more by her. That’s just the person Brooke was. That’s the person who was taken away from me, and I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I hated myself and everyone around me because I couldn’t understand why she was taken away. Why wasn’t it me?” Logan thumbs over my moist cheeks, wiping away the tears as I force my next words out. “The world needs more of her and less of me.”

“Don’t say that, Jersey Girl. You deserve to be here. Whatever happened to Brooke was out of your control. There was nothing you could do. You hear me?”

I shudder, tightly clamping my eyelids closed. As much as my father and Charlie said it wasn’t my fault, there’s always something nudging at me that it was. Like maybe I could have saved her somehow. The thought reopens old wounds, and I burst into hard sobs. Logan pulls me into him, consoling me as I let it out.

And I do.

It’s past midnight. Logan fails at TV surfing as he nods off in bed. He’s seated up against the wooden headboard. I’m lying beside him, my head on his lap, looking up at him. His fingers gently comb through my hair, pausing midstride when he dozes off, then continuing when he comes to and flashes his eyes open.

After I cried my eyes out—when I thought there was no possible way I could shed another tear—Logan and I continued to sit by the lake. No words were spoken after that. None were needed. Logan had comforted me the only way he knew how: by holding me. His arms curled around me, his gesture silently reminding me that he wasn’t going anywhere.

We didn’t leave until it began to rain. Then we had dinner with the rest of the crew. It was a nice distraction from the haunted thoughts fighting for my attention.

When outside partiers began to trail indoors, Logan and I snuck into his room. For the past two hours, we’ve done nothing but lie here. Since Logan’s room is located by the front of the house, the music and noise from out back is very distant.

I watch him doze in and out as I continue to trace his features. My eyes scroll over his, admiring the thickness of his lashes. They’re not long, but they’re dark enough to bring out the metallic cerulean hidden behind his hooded eyelids. I suck in air as my stare drops to his stubble-covered jawline, which could quite possibly be chiseled directly from granite. My gaze dashes to his full, soft lips. As quickly as it came, the air dissipates from my lungs, as I think of exactly how those lips taste. Although I’ve only fully felt them twice against mine, I’d recognize the owner of those lips on any given day.

Immersed in every inch of his rugged aspect, I try to memorize all of it, imprinting each and every fine detail of his features, and vault it deep within my head. A place where I can lock away the perfect image of the man—

Suddenly it hits me all at once.

I hope that there’s a moment in everyone’s life when everything around them just stops. There’s no movement whatsoever, yet you feel …

Every. Single. Thing.

All of the emotions traveling through every cord, fiber, and thread of your existence—every muscle, aching . You want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to drop to your knees because you feel the weight deep within your chest. It’s too difficult to bear, but you won’t let it go.