Chapter 6 - Impermissible

I wake up crying. Hearing my mother's voice comforted me for the most part yesterday evening but it has lost its effect and I am sobbing like a baby again. The bed feels abandoned. My body is cold. My chest hurts. Robert is no longer with me for the second night in a row.

I've scheduled an appointment with my shrink regarding my loss. He is going to medicate me, which is unfortunate as I just finished my med journey last year. Yes, from age twenty-five to thirty-three, I was taking a variety antidepressants, antipsychotics and mood stabilizers to manage my adult clinical depression and borderline. Even as an adolescent I faced mental issues; the only difference being that I did not take medication until I was older. Illicit drugs were what I used from ages fourteen to nineteen.

Later that day, I meet with Dr. Montgomery.

"Have you thought of using heroin?" His first question is after a lecture about grieving. I understand and appreciate his concern but could he possibly go about this more detached?

"No." I lie. I don't even know where to get it on my own. Robert was the one with the connections at this point in adulthood. So even if I answered yes, it's not like I would be doing it anytime soon. I have children. "Doctor, I haven't used drugs in years."

"I understand. I just need to know so I can note which meds are vital. This is serious, Sasha. Borderlines don't typically know how to deal with grieving."

I feel so patronized but I keep my mouth shut. The sooner I can leave this world, the better.

—

ONE WEEK LATER

I skipped every dose of medication prescribed since day one. What did I need to take pills for? I am in a mixed episode. I don't need medication as I am high off my own neurochemical imbalance. No one can force pills down my throat just because something happened to me.

They don't even fucking work. This response to trauma is more beneficial than something that would risk my life such as an addiction to china white. God, how I could draw up a hit right now and slam it on home into my arm.

The kids are at school. If I had some I could use it to overcome my heartbreak of Robert being torn from me. I'm more distraught than his psycho mother. And I have no one. She at least has her husband.

I stand atop my roof ready to jump when a van rolls by. I try my best to hide myself to draw no more attention – to possibly trick the driver into thinking they hallucinated – but I am unsuccessful.

"Hey!" Someone yells.

I look down, covering the sun from my eyes with both hands.

It's Richard. Its fucking Richard.

I feel my anger again. He knows I am grieving and he's stalking me?

"What are you doing outside my house?" I demand.

"I'm a freelance carpenter on the weekends. What are you doing on your roof? That's dangerous."

Oh, my. I had no idea.

"Get off your roof or I'm calling the police. This is not how to go about your situation."

At this point, I cannot contain my exasperation.

"Get the fuck out of here," I scream. "You have nothing to do with this, get out. Go about your day." My voice cracks on my last sentence.

He makes a face and gets out his phone.

"You really are a piece of work."

I watch him dial the police and report that there is a lady threatening to jump off the roof of her three storey house.

"You may as well get down before you're hauled off to some mental hospital." He yells once he's off the phone.

How dare he. I could lose custody of my children. I could lose so much more than that, like my choice to own a house if some doctor decides I'm best off locked up. It happened to a girl back in the day. She was only allowed to see her parents once a week.

I climb down through the master bedroom window and meet him outside at the front door. I want to yell at him to get off my property but something in my conscience tells me not to. He has more power than me in this situation. And it looks to me like he is hanging around to have a word with the police, the way he hasn't gotten into his car yet. I panic.

"I'm sorry, Mister… Brooke, was it?"

"Call me Richard."

"Yes. Thank you for the reality check. You know, in that I was harming myself." He must know I'm full of shit. We need to be on good terms before those cops get here.

"Death isn't easy. But you don't need to kill yourself." He says blatantly. I shudder. "I don't know who you are but I know you've had it rough."

An uncomfortable formation of forbidden emotion rises in my heart. Validation. Similar to a drug to borderlines, I crave it. From everyone. Compliments, the truth, genuine care, anything related to, I cannot live my life without. I quickly look away from him, ashamed of my lack of morals. I owe Robert all my attention despite that he's deceased. I–

"When you're ready for me, I will pursue you, Sasha." He, again, says blatantly. "I will show you love is real again."

That is when he opens the van door and gets in the driver's seat. Next to him is a white dog I didn't notice until now. He barks and whimpers at his owner, then licks the window. I want no more than to let that dog run free and sit myself down in the seat next to him and tell him one thing:

You cannot be blatant to someone like myself and expect me not to have questions, such as 1)who the fuck are you and 2) how could you enter my circle so fast and provoke me to forget the love of my life? I have borderline.

I forewarn myself of the nerve he had to move in on impermissible grounds. I cannot be broken into this easily. Robert mattered to me more than some hunk who had the audacity to tell me he was going to make me love him someday.