If that wasn’t traumatic enough, the following summer was when my incident occurred. He witnessed it, unable to intervene because he couldn’t walk, and that fucked him up mentally even more.
When he’s having a bad mental episode, he takes more medication than he should. When he wants to knock himself out, he takes extra sleeping pills and mixes them with pain pills.
Almost every morning I wonder if that’ll be the day I find him no longer breathing.
He attempted to overdose once, five years ago. And then once again, two years ago.
Since then, I’ve tried to stay strong and remind him how much we love and need him. I ignore my grief about how our lives should’ve been, so instead of adding extra guilt to his plate, I pretend everything’s fine.
Our family had it rough for a few years—hell, Daddy still does. I recovered from my incident.
He never will.
“I can clear the table, Mom,” I quickly say when she starts fussing over the dishes.
She sighs, frustrated that there’s nothing we can do to help Dad. “Thanks, sweetie.”
She opens the dishwasher and starts rinsing the plates I hand over. We work in silence, sticking to our routine afterward where she tidies up the house, and I hang out in my room with Moose. When Daddy’s in bed, we try our best not to wake him since he only sleeps a few hours at a time before the pain inevitably hits him again.
I wake up sometime after nine in the morning to a video of rain noises still playing. Reaching over, I close my laptop and that’s when I feel a weird burning sensation.
“What the hell?” Sitting up in bed, I stretch out my arms and see they’re covered in red bumps.
And they’re itchy as fuck.
Moose’s head pops up and nudges me.
“Oh my God…what the hell is this?” Flying out of bed, I rush to the full-length mirror in the corner of my room. So far, the rash only reaches to my elbows, but I can’t help scratching it.
Grabbing my phone, I snap a few photos and send one to my horse club group chat. Someone in there might know what it is and hopefully how to treat it.
I’m too scared to leave my room in case it’s contagious. The last thing Dad needs on top of his pain is to get covered in whatever the hell this is. We typically go for a walk in the morning since it’s when he feels his best. Well, he rides in his power chair, and I walk next to him with Moose. But it’s a good way to get him out of the house and for us to talk.
After a few people guess random possibilities, Jake asks for a closer pic.
Unknown: That’s poison ivy, sweetheart. Don’t scratch it.
Sweetheart?Who the hell is that?
Harlow: Don’t scratch?! I’m about to peel off my skin.
Jake: You must’ve rubbed up against it within the last 12 to 24 hours.
Harlow: Shit…I went riding yesterday and got lost so I walked through some brush to get us back on the path.
The sun was beating down on me, so I rolled up my sleeves.Shit.
Jake: That’ll do it.
Unknown: Apply cool compresses and get some itch-relief cream.
I don’t bother asking who the random number belongs to since I’m in the middle of a crisis, but I thank him anyway. Jake’s the one who added him a couple days ago, so it must be one of his guy friends.
Exiting the chat, I Google how to treat poison ivy and if it’s contagious.
Luckily, it’s not, but it can appear on other parts of my body since it develops in stages. I was wearing jeans yesterday, but that doesn’t mean it won’t show up on my neck or face. If I touch any part of my body after being exposed, it’s only a matter of time before it shows up.
And of course, it says to avoid scratching so it doesn’t get infected.
