Perfectly Damaged

“She couldn’t understand a word I was saying. She was going to call our dad, but I begged her not to. So she did what any loyal big sister would: she drove the five-hour trip from her university to be by my side. When she got home, I told her everything that was happening to me, and she encouraged and finally convinced me to tell Dad. He took me to get assessed. I had several evaluations done, and that’s when I was diagnosed. At first they thought it was schizophrenia, but as my depression worsened, I was reexamined and my diagnosis was changed to schizoaffective.”

I look over at Logan, expecting a reply or comment or something. He meets my gaze, and his hand reaches up and caresses my face. “Within the last four years, was there ever a time when you didn’t hear the voices?”

I nod. “The first two years were very difficult for me. I didn’t want to believe I was sick in the head. Eric and I had split up, Brooke was away at school, my mother grew more and more distant, and Dad was working on expanding the company. I’d never felt more alone in my life. I went to a local college because that was all I could handle, and my father felt it was best to stay close to home. The new medication I was taking at the time was making me zone out. It stopped the voices, but I felt dead. I had no feelings—highs or lows—and I didn’t care about anything or anyone.

“So I stopped taking my medication. I lied to everyone, including my psychiatrist. They all thought I was still on my meds. I started to feel alive again, awake. I was able to focus more. But it only lasted a week. After that, the voices came back along with paranoia. I thought everyone was out to get me, that no one took my best interests to heart, and that they were all crazy and I was the sane one. And I definitely didn’t want to continue on with the medication. I hated the way I felt and the person I was becoming. I didn’t feel like me anymore.

“One day, I was told—by the voices—it would be best if I were dead, that it would be better for everyone who had to waste their lives taking care of me. And I thought they were right. I hated that Brooke drove back home every weekend just to be with me. I hated that Dad began to work from home on the weeknights that Charlie couldn’t stop by because he was afraid to leave me alone. And I hated that I managed to drive my mother further away. So I did what the voices asked me to do.”

“You tried to kill yourself?” Logan looks shocked, pained.

I nod.

“Jersey Girl,” he lets out shakily, and I can tell that the news of how I attempted to take my own life is hitting him hard. And with those two words he mourns for the girl I was. They’re an apology for the past, a thank you for the present, and a plea for the future.

“I know. Trust me, I know, Logan. I was at a really low point in my life.”

“How did you do it?” He cringes for even asking.

“I stabbed myself. I took a big knife from the kitchen and I just jabbed myself in the middle of my stomach—it’s what the voices instructed me to do.” I lift my shirt just beneath my breast, revealing the three-inch scar. The scar is located where it’s mostly hidden when I wear the thick strand of my bikini tops—which is probably why he’s never noticed it before. Logan traces a finger over the clumpy skin, which is barely noticeable against my tan.

I roll my shirt back down, suddenly embarrassed by showing myself in the first place. I keep my eyes down as I continue my story, my voice lowering. “It went pretty far in. I remember it burned; it was a sharp burn, hurt like hell. But I wanted the voices to go away, so I twisted the knife deeper. And then I remember collapsing. I’d lost a lot of blood, but Brooke…” The ghost of a smile tugs at my lips. “I guess she was my guardian angel that day since she’s the one who found me on my bedroom floor, covered in my own blood.”

Logan brings both hands to my face and forces me to look at him. “You are never going to do that again.” I nod, agreeing with him. “I’m serious, Jenna. If you ever feel that way again, if you ever feel the urge to harm yourself, come to me. Okay? I’d lose my fuckin’ mind if I ever lost you.”

“I’ll try,” I say truthfully. That’s a promise I can never truly keep. When I’m triggered, pulled under and dragged into a dark place, it’s difficult for me to come out of it. He presses his lips to my forehead, and then brings my head to lie on his shoulder.

“After Brooke found me, I was taken to the ER,” I go on. “I was evaluated and placed on suicide watch in the psych ward. Then my parents felt it was best to send me away for a few months.”

“You were taken to Brandy Mental Health?”

I shake my head. “No. My parents never told me about my grandmother. So I’m sure keeping me far away from Brandy was for a good reason. I was taken to a small, private ‘rehabilitation’ retreat, as my parents called it. They told family and friends I needed a break from all the stress of school and such.” I roll my eyes. “But honestly, I didn’t fight it. I let them take me there and I signed the admissions paperwork.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew I was burden to all of them, so I didn’t fight them on it. And at that point I was desperate to get better. The therapist at the retreat told my parents that because I was aware of my illness and willing to work on getting better, my chances of recovery were high.”

“I don’t understand the recovery process,” Logan states, confusion evident in his tone. “I’ve heard of people who recover from drug and alcohol abuse and self-harm. How does someone recover from a mental illness?”

I draw small circles in the palm of his hand, allowing the comfort and calm to wash over me as I talk about my illness with him. “I know it’s hard to believe. The word recover is sort of a misnomer. Someone who’s recovering isn’t miraculously cured. Just like an addict, sometimes when things get rough, it feels uncontrollable and they relapse. Think of it that way. I could relapse at any time.

“But with the proper treatment, good eating habits, and exercise—and most importantly a support team—there’s a strong chance I can beat this. I’ve read stories of some people who were able to stop taking medication altogether without suffering from the hallucinations or delusions. And I did. For about a year, actually.”

Logan shifts. I lift my head and meet his gaze. His eyes brighten with hope. “You were able to cope and deal with it without medication?” I nod in response. “Well, that’s good, right? I mean that means you’ll be able to again. Right?” he urges.