Page 112 of The Silence Between

RECOVERY AND RECONSTRUCTION

LEO

Five days into my stay at Riverton Psychiatric Center, and I still couldn't shake the feeling I'd somehow failed. I sat in the circle of metal chairs, watching the other patients share their stories. The room smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and coffee, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in that particular way that made everything feel slightly unreal.

“When I realized I wasn't actually a burden to my family,” a middle-aged woman named Cheryl was saying, “it was like this weight just... lifted. They weren't better off without me. They just needed me to be healthier.”

Dr. Harrison nodded encouragingly. “That's an important realization, Cheryl. Anyone else want to share a moment that shifted your perspective?”

I stared at the floor, tracing patterns in the speckled institutional tile. Five days, and I still couldn't bring myself to speak much in group therapy. The shame was too raw, too close to the surface. I'd stood on that bridge ready to leave my siblings behind. What kind of guardian does that?

“Leo?” Dr. Harrison's voice was gentle but insistent. “Would you like to share today?”

I looked up, meeting her eyes briefly before glancing around at the other patients. No judgment there, just recognition. They'd all been where I was, in one way or another.

“I'm still trying to figure out why I didn't see it coming,” I admitted, my voice rougher than I'd expected. “I'm supposed to be the one who handles everything, who plans for every contingency. How did I miss this?”

“That's a common thought pattern,” Dr. Harrison said. “It's called catastrophic thinking coupled with personalization. You believe you should have anticipated and managed every possible crisis, and you take full responsibility for circumstances beyond your control.”

“But my siblings?—“

“Are safe and cared for,” she finished gently. “You've built a stronger support network than you realized.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Ethan had been sending daily updates, sometimes hourly ones. The kids were going to school. The rent was paid. Life continued without me constantly holding everything together. That should have been a relief, but it felt like proof I'd been doing something wrong all along.

After group, I returned to my room to work on the journal assignment Dr. Winters had given me in individual therapy. The room was sparse but private—a single bed, a desk, a small window with a view of the hospital courtyard. Better accommodations than I deserved, honestly.

I opened the journal to a blank page and stared at it. Today's prompt:Identify three patterns of thinking that contributed to your crisis.

My pen hovered over the paper before finally making contact.

1. If I can't handle everything perfectly, I'm failing completely.

2. My worth is measured by how well I take care of others.

3. Asking for help means I'm weak and incompetent.

I stared at the words, seeing them in black and white for the first time. Dr. Winters had been helping me identify these thought patterns all week, but writing them down made them real in a way that was both uncomfortable and strangely freeing.

Below these points, I continued writing, the words coming easier now.

For ten years, I've believed I had to be superhuman. That if I just worked hard enough, slept less, worried more, I could somehow make up for the fact that our family system was fundamentally broken. That I could be both brother and parent, without the resources, experience, or support that most parents have.

It was never going to work. Not because I wasn't trying hard enough, but because the expectations were impossible from the start.

My hand moved almost without conscious direction, words pouring onto the page as something shifted inside me. Not healing, not yet, but maybe the beginning of understanding.

I traced the semicolon tattoo on my wrist. Back then, it had meant simply continuing, pushing through, enduring. Now I wondered if it could mean something different. Changing the structure of the story rather than just extending it indefinitely.

* * *

“Leo!”

Sophie's voice hit me before I could even register her presence, her small body colliding with mine in a hug that nearly knocked me off balance. I wrapped my arms around her, burying my face in her hair for a moment to hide the tears that sprang to my eyes.

“Hey, squirt,” I managed, my voice thankfully steady. “I missed you.”

The hospital meeting room felt both too big and too small for this reunion. Beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, a staff member discreetly positioned by the door. Clinical and impersonal, yet containing the most personal moment I'd experienced in over a week.

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