~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Is it better to sink into the depth of my darkness, or feel nothing at all?,"

"You'll need to stick to this routine, Cherie. Your body has become dependent on this medication— without it, you will undoubtedly start the withdrawal process. You may experience insomnia, nausea and vomiting, brain zaps, extreme suicidal thoughts....,"

He drones on and on. List after list. Medications, conditions, diagnoses, call centers, etc. I wouldn't be able to reiterate or spell for the life of me. But Freddie asked me to come. And so, I'm doing it for him.

He needs reassurance that I'll be okay. He says he knows I'm strong. He says he'll be here for me and love me no matter what. He says he's going to help me through this.

But, what if 'this' is me?

What if this is just how I function now? My brain has finally snapped. My mental has gone kaput. I've had a lifetime of trauma and it was only a matter of time before the levee breaks.

I knew that.

Well, I know that now.

We leave the doctors office, hand in hand. His long fingers intertwined with mine and in silence we proceed down the elevator, out of the stuffy building and to the car.

I know he's probably trying to absorb everything that was said. Somebody has to have the facts straight, because surely, it can't be me.

We pass by the winding road of snow frosted tree tops, the radio lowly buzzing Christmas music in the background and I can't help but close my eyes to the static noise winding around in my brain.

I feel tired.

Exhausted, really.

My energy has become so depleted, I can only blame this damned medicinal ritual. I don't remember feeling this defeated.

"You need to let the medication take its course. Nothing is an immediate fix...."

The psychiatrists words replay in my mind at random times. Instances of brain fog have been clouding my thoughts. Like a fluffy blanket to cushion me from actually feeling pain....from actually feeling anything at all.

"We're here...," Freddie kisses my cheek as a wake up call. I hadn't even noticed that I'd fallen asleep on the ride to his parents house.

I follow him out of the car and carefully navigate over the thin ice that coats the walkway up to the front door. Hmmm, we should really help them with that.

"Hi, Cherie! How are you feeling, dear? I....oh...,"

"Sorry, Mum. She's...um, she just started her medication. She's not really in the state to-,"

I walk away and towards the living room as Freddie explains his zombie-wife to his mother.

I gave her a hug, Didnt I?

Maybe I was too rude?

She hates me.

I know she does.

Who wants their son with the likes of me?

I sit on the couch and take in the television program that Bomi is watching. He grunts his hello, but I think I interrupted his nap, as he's laid back in his recliner sofa chair, newspaper lying across his chest, glasses slightly hanging off his face.

"Mummy! You're back!,"

Richie's excited greeting pierces my ears, I grip my head to stop the swaying.

Charlies sudden squeal as she rushes up to me causes Bomi to sit up straight in his chair, pushing down the foot rest of his recliner and smoothing his thin hair back a bit from its disarray.

I engulf them in a tight hug— anything to feel for my two little beans? I can feel myself squeezing them in my arms. I can tell they're happy that I'm back again by the shining smiles on their faces. They do bring a tinge of light to the grayscale, don't they?

The treatment center was only a quick stay, but it was tortuous. I never want to go back there again.

The things I saw.

The things I heard.

But, I can't let that be known. As far as the doctor and Freddie know— the treatment center was healing, peaceful and a well-needed break.

At least, that's what they said on the brochure.

At least, that's what they program you to say.

The twins run to the kitchen, yelling things about helping Jer prepare dinner. Freddie walks into the room from upstairs, carrying Lily down the steps. He sits beside me on the couch and Lily crawls into my lap, nestling her head against my chest.

Try to feel.

Try to feel.

It was only a short few weeks ago that my precious little baby girl wouldn't even show me the time of day. She use to scream and cry and aggressively try to pry herself out of my arms whenever we tried to get to know one another.

Now that she's so comfortable with me. Now that she trusts and loves me— I can't feel a thing.

————————————————————

Jer:

I watch the two of them through our family meal. I made sure to cook Cherie's favorite dinner, but she hasn't touched a thing.

They both don't notice my watchful eye— Freddie's too busy feeding Lily, looking over at Cherie every chance he gets. And Cherie...well, she doesn't seem to really be here.

Now, in my time, we didn't do things like talk with strangers about our problems, or seek professional help and go to rehabs by choice. No, those things were forced on you if you were crazy enough. Your family was shamed and outcasted; reputations were slashed and you were locked away rarely ever to be seen again, in the same town, at least.

But, I'm not an old mule. I know that times have changed. I know Cherie is not crazy. The poor dear has just been through too much hell on this earth to deal with alone. I know my son has tried, but he is naturally very emotional himself. It's a good thing they both came to the decision to get help when it was needed.

I just can't help but think that Cherie should be acting more herself than not. She's not the cheery, gracious little girl I've come to call my own. She may as well be mute in contrast to how she is usually the conversation starter.

This meal feels so cold, though the steam from my plate still rises in the air. Everyone is quiet, except for the twins babbling on about who knows what.

The two of them. My precious grandchildren, I can only hope that they won't be needing the same type of help as Cherie one day. I don't want to see them like this. Like a shadow of their true selves. I don't even want to see Cherie like this.

After dinner, Freddie walks back into the kitchen as I start to clear the table. He quickly picks up every glass and helps me carry them over to the sink.

As I let the soap suds build underneath the hot water, he jumps up on the countertop beside me. I know he wants to say something, the way he keeps popping his lips and then closing his mouth again. He used to do this same exact thing when he was a boy and something was weighing heavily on him.

Shutting off the sink, I turn to him, swapping my dish washing gloves for a cloth to dry my hands. I don't say anything, just look up at him, waiting for him to come clean. And, of course, he does when he's ready.

"I don't know what to do, Mama. I-I thought she'd come back home and be her old self again. She just seems out of it, not herself, and not interested in anything at all.....it's like they took all the sadness out of her and forgot to leave the joy..."

———————————————————

"Don't look back- don't look back"

We rush away from the scene. Running towards the snow storm, we make our way through the path on the side of the road. Everything in our midst is covered in white heavy snow, I can barely see my hands in front of my face.

"There! There! Cherie wave them down!!,"

The light of the flashing sirens catch my eye and before I know it, I'm pushing the twins in Deacys arms and making a run for it to the middle of the road.

"What is she do— CHERIE GET OFF THE ROAD!!,"

I have the urge to bolt, to move, scurry away. But the impending smoke of darkness whispers into the crevices of my brain . . . . . One...last...time. . . .