Page 46 of Rewriting the Story

I nod, unsure how to feel about all this. “So I’ll be medicated for the rest of my life?”

“Most likely, yes. Symptoms might lessen as you get older, but it’s not a guarantee. How is this making you feel?”

“Terrified. I feel like I’ve been going through the motions for my entire life, and to fix what’s been wrong with me, I have to take medication every day. I guess I’m struggling with the fact that I can’t fix myself, and I’ll be like this forever.”

“It’s normal to feel that way. Medication is not a cure, though, Amelia. It helps, sure, but the real work comes from you.”

“But what if the person I am when I’m medicated is different from who I really am? What if I don’t really know who I am, and I’m going to meet a new version of myself I don't recognize? What if I lose who I thought I was and become someone I don’t know when I look in the mirror?”

“Amelia, stop the spiral and come back to the present for me,” Dr. Elyse coaxes. “You know who you are. Medication isn't going to change that, but it’s going to help your brain balance out. It’s going to help the fog clear. It’s going to help to keep you focused when your brain normally wants to divert itself. Trust me on this.”

“I’m scared,” I admit as her timer goes off, tears streaming down my face. Everything is going to change, and I’m terrified I might not be strong enough for it.

“It’s okay to be scared,” she tells me. “It’s going to be a lot of change, and at first, it’s going to be weird and tough and terrifying, but that’s normal. And you know you can always text or call me in between our weekly sessions. I’m always available for you, especially during this time of change.”

She scribbles something down on a piece of paper before she hands it to me.

“I’ve called in a prescription for you at a local pharmacy. It’s fifteen milligrams of Adderall. This is your starting dose that we’re going to try out for a little bit. I want you to journal your thoughts every day, and at your next appointment, we’re going to talk about how it’s helped yoursymptoms. We’ll adjust from there if we need to, okay? Does that seem alright to you?”

I sit with her instructions before I take my journal out and write what she said down—another thing she’s suggested I try. I’ve been keeping a journal on me, writing down notes to keep my brain on track, and so far, it’s been working well.

“I can do that.”

She grabs my hand as we get up and head for the door. “Yes, you can, Amelia. Youcando this.”

16

Now

From The Dining Table by Harry Styles

Dinnerisn'tactuallyasbad as I thought it was going to be. We went to one of the restaurants attached to the hotel we’re staying at, and it’s a nice place. We’re on the back patio, away from most other people, and have been conversing since the appetizers were set down.

I’ve been strategically placed next to Grant and Ella. Grant is to my left; he’s the best person in this group for small talk because he can talk about anything for an extended period of time. Ella is to my right, and I’m sure she’s trying to keep an eye on me, but I appreciate her keeping me away from Henry after our conversation in theelevator.

He was a lot more forward than he used to be, and I deserved his remarks no matter how much it hurt hearing them. I can’t help but steal a few glances at him down the table; he’s grown up quite nicely in the past few years. His hair is still that same shade of brown, a little longer than it used to be in college. He never really styled it back then, and I guess he still doesn't, because his wavy hair is all over as the breeze blows through it.

Or it's like that because he won’t stop running his hand through it. Back when I knew him, he used to tilt his head when he was nervous. I was never sure if he knew he did that when he was feeling awkward or uncomfortable, but I always noticed it. That’s one of the best parts about knowing someone so intimately—you can see things they might not have noticed about themselves.

Now, I can’t figure out if him running his hand through his hair so much is a new nervous habit he picked up, or if it’s too long and he needs to cut it because it’s bothering him.

I’ll probably never know him so intimately again, so that thought will remain unanswered.

I’m aching to solve this puzzle just so he and I can both move on and live our lives the way we were meant to—separately. I again ignore how that makes me feel before I grab a chip and dip it in salsa, shoving it into my mouth to try and get rid of the feelings I’m having.

I steal another glance at him, his body like a magnet to mine now that we’re back in close proximity, only this time, his eyes connect with mine. Just when I think we’re about to share a look or a thought like we used to all those years ago, he breaks contact and turns back to his conversation with Oliver.

I know nothing Oliver says is ever that interesting, so the fact that he chose to talk with him rather than look at me is telling. It hurts more than it should, because every time I had a conversation with Oliver inthe past, I either wanted to fall asleep, yell at him to stop being so boring, or some other quip I used to have up my sleeve back then.

But I’m being civil because it is a celebration of his wedding, and I would hate for Paige to have to mediate our quarrels. I have enough shit to deal with on this trip, and adding Oliver to the mix is more of a headache than anything.

Deep down, I am super happy for him, but I’d never tell him that. Not only would it upset the balance, but that’s not how our relationship works. The two of us thrive on annoying one another, and I think we both understand that underneath all the shit we’ve said to one another, it’s all out of love.

Actually, love is too strong of a word. I guess I would call it a mutual understanding.

The eight of us order our food, and as the waiter leaves, Grant stands, clinking his glass with his knife.

“As the first official boyfriend, I am honored to welcome the eight of us to the first wedding of the book club.”

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