Take My Hand, Just Hold On

That feeling I had two months ago is a distant memory, something that seems unreal the more I think about it. How could I have ever felt that this was anything but something that would weigh on me forever? How could I have thought I could get over it, just like that? It’s the only thing I have thought of since stepping off that airplane onto the soiled L.A. ground.

If it weren’t for the vague memories I have of excitement and desire for my job, I would have jumped right back on a plane back home to my parents, away from this god-forsaken land. Alas, I am trying to stick it out for my former self.

Incidentally, the only contact I have outside of the office is picking up the phone every once in a while when my parents call – just enough to let them know I’m alive. They aren’t clueless; they know how unhappy I am, but there’s nothing they can do to help me. Unhappy is a kind word for my state of being, perhaps. But I doubt there is a word invented that could describe how deep my depression has gotten. I am perhaps feeding it by refusing contact with anyone.

Robert. He called after I landed. I didn’t answer. He texted. I texted back that I got home fine and those were the last words I sent him. He kept trying for almost a month, but eventually gave up. Did I feel bad? No, not really. Should I have? Yes, probably.

Anyway, my days were spent in a zombie-like state, undoubtedly brought on by the fact that my nights were sleepless. Except in the wee hours of the night when I would drift uneasily into nightmares so disturbing I couldn’t do them justice in explaining them. Needless to say, it was on rare occasions that sleep would come to me.

So, zombie-like. Perhaps it shouldn’t come as a shock when right now I am hearing Tom say, “Brenna, will you step into my office please?”

It’s the end of the day; I was just packing up to leave. But I nodded and walked into his office wordlessly. He motioned to the seat across him and I acquiesced, sitting down and looking at my hands on my lap.

“Brenna, I’m not really sure how to say this, so I think I will just come out and say it,” he pauses. Perhaps waiting for me to look up, to acknowledge I am listening. I give my head a slight nod, prompting him to continue. It’s not as if I wasn’t expecting this to happen. “Well, it’s been two months since you came back, and obviously what I hoped would happen didn’t… You seem to just be getting worse with each passing day,” another pause. Finding the words, I’m sure. He’s not sure how to fire someone for getting raped and becoming something close to nothing. “Well, you don’t seem to be able to do your job. I understand that you’re probably feeling like your whole world has crashed down around you. Scratch that, I know I couldn’t possibly understand what you’re going through,” yet another pause. He was never going to finish this, is he?

What would I do after I was fired? Go home? That doesn’t even seem appealing anymore. I’ve thought about it endlessly; maybe I would finally be able to do it. Kill myself, I mean. It’s not like I have any kind of a life going for me anymore.

“I don’t want to fire you, Brenna,” he interrupts my thoughts. I look at him for the first time, I’m sure a confused look on my face. “I don’t want to, but I will if it comes to that. I’m hoping you might go see someone, you know. Get some help?”

“Like a therapist?” I question, somewhat intrigued. It actually pushed my suicidal thoughts aside completely. Why does he even care this much?

“Well, yes. And under the healthcare you have through us, you can get 10 sessions at a fairly good rate. And I know a therapist who… Specializes in, well, cases like yours. And I may be able to get you an even further reduced rate. She works with my daughter, and is a very sweet lady.”

I’m looking down at my lap again, thinking. I have never been to therapy… And to be honest, I can’t see that talking to someone would help me at all. It wouldn’t change anything. I’d still be… tainted.

“Anyway, please think it over this weekend. If your answer is no, then I sincerely hope you are able to get through this yourself. I would hate to let you go, you really did show promise when you started here, Brenna,” he finishes. I look up at him again and try to give him a smile, unsuccessfully.

“I’ll think about it,” I answer honestly. If nothing else, I owe it to him for caring enough about me to at least suggest a solution.

“Good, that’s all I needed to hear. Have a nice weekend, then.”

I nod, “You too, Tom.”



I was on my bed, watching The Daily Show, not thinking about therapy and being psychoanalyzed. Well, maybe not psychoanalyzed considering I know the cause of my depression and what my dreams mean.

Anyway, like I said, not thinking about. I am concentrating on Jon Stewart, trying to find humor in the world again. I’ll admit, sometimes he gets a smile out of me. Stephen Colbert is more successful, he sometimes gets a bark of a laugh. This is a re-run of a show earlier in the week though, so to be quite honest, it’s not really making me feel any different. Monday through Thursday, 11:00 to 12:00, though, the heaviness of my heart and the constant nausea I feel is somewhat reduced. I guess I could take that as hope for the future.

But right now I just hear this banging in the back of my head. Some new form of headache? Wait, no, is that actual banging? Someone banging on my door? I paused the TV; yes, definitely actual banging. But why is there someone at my door? And why are they making such a fucking racket at 12:30 at night?

I waited a couple minutes, but it didn’t stop. I got up and made my way slowly to my door. I peeked out the peephole and couldn’t believe who it was. What was he doing here? How did he even get in the building?

“Brenna, I know you’re in there, I can see your shadow under the door. Please just let me in,” he says.

I stepped back from the door, trying to erase my decision to come out of my room.

“Can we talk? I just need to know you’re okay.”

I step back toward the door, “I’m fine, Robert. Can you just let me be, please?” I nearly plead. I didn’t want him to see me. Not like this. I just want him to remember me like I was before this whole thing happened. I know that’s probably not who he’s thinking of anymore, I’ll forever be the broken girl that imposed on him while he was working. But if he thought I was broken before, I’d be something worse now.