Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Frankie’s at some art festival with Cody and Hayden today. I imagine him drinking and laughing with the guys, wanting to enjoy his day off. I know he wouldn’t be bothered knowing I’m having a hard time, but I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, so I just text him: I might have to skip a night of being thrown around in the bedroom like a rag doll…no complaints there, tho. ;) Just tired. Think I’ll call it a night when I get home.
He replies quickly with, K, but if you change your mind, there’s karaoke at Flirt tonight.
I tell him that works, but I know better. With the way I feel, that’s not very likely.
Working my full eight hours takes its toll. By the time I get back to the condo, I’m exhausted, depleted—emotionally more than physically.
It’s not an unfamiliar experience for me. I haven’t had an issue with it in a while, but it used to happen all the time, especially when I was with Peter and still trying to figure out what was wrong with me. In a lot of ways, he benefited from my weakness—by being able to keep me isolated since I didn’t want to go anywhere often. He was able to manipulate and orchestrate things, so I didn’t know any better.
But shitty as he was, at the very least, I was able to get on top of my depression during that time, so I appreciate all that.
Now, it’s something I can manage. I can’t control it, but I can live with it. Some days are just shit. It’s not my fault, and there’s not necessarily a trigger. Hell, considering what’s sparked between Frankie and me and the things we’ve done the past few days since we had that in-fucking-credible fuck session together, I know there’s nothing making me feel this way other than my crazy head.
No, outside of this nagging discomfort, I feel safe…appreciated…cared for. That’s why I know it’s just the depression.
On the plus side, it’s not as bad as it could be. I know how low I can get, and this doesn’t compare. The fact that I was even able to get out of bed speaks volumes.
When I get into my room, I fall down onto my bed. I feel like I could sleep for days.
I lie here until I hear the door to the condo open and then shortly after, a knock at my door.
I don’t want to ruin Frankie’s day or make him feel like he needs to cheer me up. I know how he’ll get, and contrary to my therapist’s words about people not knowing how I feel, that doesn’t apply to Frankie, who can read me better than anyone.
I muster enough strength to get to the door, and when I open it and see his grin and that sparkle in his eyes as he runs his hand down his beanie, it kills me that I can’t be as happy as he is in this moment.
I want to cry, but I keep it together and remind myself—like I’ve been doing all day—that this isn’t me. This is just the depression—a chemical imbalance in my brain.
I can intellectualize that, but it always feels the same…and like crap.
“How’s my pup doing?” he asks. “We’re going to head to see a movie before karaoke if you wanted to—” He stops.
His words are so easygoing, so full of life. They make me wish I could shake out of this state.
The space between his eyebrows creases up as he seems to realize that something’s off. “Ev, everything okay?”
“I’m not really tired, like I said in my text earlier. I’m…”
He doesn’t make me say it. Just moves into my room and hooks his arm around me.
“Come here.” He pulls me over to the bed and sits down beside me. It reminds me of that first night we talked.
He has that warm, sympathetic expression on his face as he takes my hand, massaging his thumb across it.
It relaxes it, makes it easier for me to say, “It’s just hard today.”
“Do you think it’s your meds? Do you think you might need a stronger prescription?”
He’s always been good about talking to me about things like this, and he was there for me when I had to change my prescription twice before.
“No, everything’s been good,” I tell him. “It really doesn’t get as bad as it used to even when it does hit. I think I’m just in my head about it too much because everything’s been going so well. I have this job I love, more friends than I’ve ever had in my life, and this amazing guy—”
“Oh, really? Who’s this amazing guy?” he says, playful jealousy in his tone. “Where’d you meet him, Grindr, Scruff, the bathhouse?”
I snicker. Something I’ve always loved about Frankie is that, even when I get like this, he has a way of breaking through. He can’t make the numbness—this feeling that hits me to my core—totally go away, but he makes it feel a little less overwhelming.