Light in the Shadows

              “I get it.  It’s fine.” What a lie.  I was feeling absurdly rejected.  I had always been the aggressor in the physical side of our relationship. I suppose, I was hoping this once, I wouldn’t have to be.  It was stupid and immature but when you’re in the heat of the moment, only to be denied what your body wants so badly, it’s hard to see things logically.
                    “Maggie.  Please don’t look like that.  I love you.  There is nothing in this world I want more than to make love to you.  But let’s just take this slow.  It will be better in the long run.  For both of us.”  His pleading made it difficult to stay miffed. 
                    I laid my head down on his shoulder, turning my face into his shirt and kissed the spot just above his heart.  “Okay,” I said quietly.  Clay held me tightly to his side and we were quiet.  And for the time being, it was enough.
     
                 

 
    C HAPTER N INETEEN    

- C LAY-
     
     
     
                    Trying to fit years of work into a few short months was daunting, if not impossible.  Here I was, a month out of treatment and I was attempting to run before I had even learned to walk.  Sure, I was doing better.  I was making strides to do things different, to break preexisting patterns.  But I was a fool in thinking I was “okay.” 
                    Every day was a testimonial to how far I had come.  But there were a thousand moments that reminded me of how stupid I was being for trying to promise Maggie, Ruby, myself, anything when I was in no position to do so.
                    The dark voice in my head, while not as loud, still taunted me.  It tried to tell me that I wasn’t ever going to get better.  The urge to hurt myself was overwhelming. And for every smile I forced onto my face, it was followed by the fight to keep it all together.
                    But I was following my treatment plan.  I never missed a therapy appointment.  I made sure to take my medication twice a day as prescribed.  But the niggling doubts began to resurface the longer I was in Davidson. 
                    Did I really need the medicine?
                    Come on, wouldn’t I feel so much better if I was just able to live without it?  Remember how awesome it was?  How I felt on top of the world?
                    What could it hurt?  Missing a day or two?  No one would have to know.
                    I was fighting an enemy every single day.  And his name was Clayton Reed. 
                    The only difference this time was I refused to bottle it up inside and hope it would go away.  Or even worse, cave into the demands of the voice inside me.  I spoke with Shaemus about how scared I was.  About the urges that at times seemed to eat me alive. 
                    He started having me journal again (just freaking fantastic).  He wanted me to write down each and every time I had the desire to hurt myself.  I was supposed to focus on what I was feeling, what triggered it.  He didn’t try to hide from me the fact that he was worried.  He shared that the likelihood of relapse for someone with Borderline Personality Disorder was huge.  He suggested that the Tegretol may need to be adjusted to combat my manic symptoms.
                    And then we would talk about voluntary readmission to a mental health facility.  Sometimes that sounded like a good idea.  Other times, not so much. 
                    Every day I came home to an aunt who was barely able to get out of bed in the morning.  She had started to see a grief counselor, at my insistence, but I wasn’t seeing any change yet.  But just like my own progress, it would happen over time.  The house that had once felt warm and safe was now an empty shell.
                    But there was Maggie.
                    And that was both the brightest part of my day and the darkest.  Because with all the journaling I was doing, it was clear my trigger hadn’t changed.  It seemed that my most negative emotions were somehow still tied to the girl who loved me.
                    I had lost it during my last therapy session.  I had ripped the pages out of my journal and thrown them away.  I had wanted to grab