Page 73 of Coiled Tight
The question came off weird given the subject matter.
I forced myself to bob my head up and down regardless. “Sure?”
“When’s the last time you’ve seen a therapist?”
Oh.
I glanced down. “About… two years ago, maybe? I check in with a psychiatrist for my meds, but those appointments are very meh.”
I hadn’t needed a refill since the first month of moving, either. Not that my anxiety had been healed. Exhibit A was this whole conversation. I was a fucking mess. I’d accepted I’d always be, but I’d never relied a lot on meds. I’d always used them as an emergency thing, not something I took on a daily basis.
Sometimes I didn’t even take them in case of anemergency, either. Certainly not when I was busy or had a million other things to do and didn’t want to risk the time it would make me lose.
Psychiatrists were split fifty-fifty between loving me and hating me for the outlook. Psychologists tended to be on board until they realized the second part of it. The online community? The groups that were more curated seemed to be more compassionate. The major ones thought I was ableist with a lot of internalized bullshit to work through. Some days, I could be more aware of the layers and factors that went into it. Other days, I didn’t know who to believe, so I just buried my head in the sand and pushed forward.
“Can I ask why?”
“Therapy made me feel better.” After I’d found one that didn’t make me feel as confused as all those forums did. “It didn’t feel fair.”
The stuff about the insurance providers had been the perfect excuse, but at the core of it? Yeah, it had nothing to do with the corporate America headaches.
Saúl huffed. “I hate this fucking road.”
“Um. Why?”
And where did that even come from?
“Because there’s nowhere to stop for another hour, and you’re killing me here, darlin’.”
Oh.
twenty-six
saúl
“Icoddled Roy too much.”
“Huh?”
Yeah, that might not have been my best opening line. I’d been brimming for the last half an hour, though, with everything I needed to say. Everything I wanted to do to the boy who was in so much fucking pain I could almost feel it crawling into my skin.
It was still too early in the day to get a motel room, but I’d settled for a diner near a gas station that was completely empty. I’d never stopped here before, but food quality hadn’t been at the front of my mind.
An old woman had come to take our order and convinced us we had to get their loaded nachos. I had a feeling it was just the only fresh thing she had in the kitchen, but I’d take it.
Regardless, I had a feeling it would take her a while to get our food. The iced tea had already taken longer than I would’ve assumed.
“Roy. He… Whenever he worried about the others, or when he lashed out at someone or was rude, I coddled him.” I scrubbed a hand down my face. “I wanted to protect him so badly, kept telling myself it wasn’t his fault, that it was a product of his disorder, of the trauma he’d gone through, and it was, but I think I should’ve called him out more.”
Cam blinked. He’d been tense for the past hour, but that somehow meant his eyes were more glazed over, his posture drowsier now. As if he’d already spent all his energy, and it was taking everything in him to process new things. “That makes sense.”
“It’s why I’m not just pulling you on my lap and telling you how much you deserve the fucking world. Even if it’s killing me.”
A blush spread up his neck, all the way to his cheekbones. “So you’re telling me to go to therapy instead.”
I grimaced. Coming from him, it sounded dismissive.
“A professional can help you untangle all that guilt better than I can,” I reasoned. “And then I can hold you and not worry about repeating the same mistakes.”
