My Dinosaur Life

“If it were anybody else but you, I would not be afraid.”

(Her)

I have this recurring nightmare.

I’m drowning.

It’s dark, I’m scared, and I’m drowning.

I have no control, but it’s the only thing I desperately want.

I’m scared.

I can’t breathe.

I know my body’s writhing, but I feel like my motions are restricted.

I feel something wrap around my wrists.

I make fists and try to break free.

“Ow.”

I wake up to realize one of Justin’s hands is holding my left wrist, and the other is rubbing his cheek.

And then I realize my right hand is curled into a fist, and I put two and two together.

“Sorry,” I say simply.

I don’t know if I’m still dreaming or not.

I’d say it was déjà vu, but I don’t even fucking know if he’s actually sleeping there beside me or not.

I fall back asleep.

I drown again.

I wake up and he’s not there.

I don’t know that he ever was.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

I sign the release papers and I get to leave.

They’re easier to sign if I pretend I’m just giving an autograph.

I feel sick as soon as I exit the building and see who’s waiting for me.

A few cameras flash and follow me to the parking lot where Chelsea’s waiting to pick me up from my latest revival.

Another rehab stint for the pill-popping lead singer.

How original.

Quaint, really.

“Where’ve you been all this time?” one of them finds the courage to call after me.

Of course, it’s no secret where I’ve been.

They just want me to admit it.

I’m glad my sunglasses are on.

I feel safer with them. I always do.

It’s much easier to ignore people if they can’t make eye contact with you.

I wish I’d thought to put some head phones on to drown out my growing urge to tell them to fuck off.

They just won’t leave me be.

I keep my face a stoic veneer while my heart races inside its cage with a contained panic attack.

I make it to Chelsea’s car in one piece.

One fucked-up, clumsily taped back together mess of myself.

Cameras flash.

I’m back where I began.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

“Tell me about yourself,” she says, and I don’t want to say shit to her, but for some reason, I need someone to tell things to. I grudgingly open my mouth.

“I’ve had this dream as long as I can remember.” I wrap my arms around myself uncomfortably.

“What dream?” she asks, seemingly surprised by my sudden cooperation.

I’ve already refused her insistence to remove my sunglasses.

“I drown.” I swallow before continuing. “I can’t breathe, I can’t move, and I hate it.”

“Is that why you tried to kill yourself?”

This snaps me out of my reverie.

“I did not try to kill myself,” I state flatly.

“Mmm…” she says, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

Bitch.

The session is all downhill from there.

I decide to find a new therapist by the morning.

“I can prescribe medication for depression,” the bitch says.

I give a hollow laugh.

“No.”

I take enough medication as it is; I don’t need more to add to my pretty little collection.

I don’t believe it works in the long run, anyway.

She purses her lips, caught off guard. I glare at her through my glasses.

I don’t feel like sharing much anymore, not to her, anyway.

But there’s almost 45 minutes of the session left, and I have to say something.

I become vague.

I don’t tell her how I was almost sure I was pregnant not long after he left.

I don’t tell her how I’m convinced I miscarried because of the drugs.

“I’ve always been selfish when it comes to relationships,” I tell her, instead.

She doesn’t say anything; she’s waiting for me to say something else.

“Can you prescribe medication for that?” I ask, laughing, laughing so it doesn’t hurt.