When leaving Newfoundland, I stood in front of an abyss, about to tumble below. I’ve fallen, and now I have nothing.
Well, that’s not true. I don’t havenothing.In fact, a pervasive shame hangs around at the idea that I probably have more than many people will ever get to have in a lifetime:
Two healthy sons that I adore more than life itself, a wife who, despite all my shortcomings, has decided to choose me, a lovingly annoying extended family.
So why, then, can my stormy thoughts only focus on what I’ve lost?
Because I made it my identity.
The job I worked so hard to land to please my parents?
Gone.
Those same parents?
Gone.
At least, for the foreseeable future.
I don’t know if either of them will ever change their minds and come around. And I have to be okay with that if I want to keep choosing my own family.
That was a week ago now, and I don’t regret my choice. But fuck, it hurts.
They were the ones to drive nearly everything I’ve done. With no agency, what am I even worth? Without a job to provide, how can I be the father my boys deserve?
I’m ripped from my thoughts by the soft padding of Rachel’s feet against the hardwood floor of the bedroom. I look up from where I’m lying. The sight of her, hair loose, wearing monochromatic sweats in a bright teal that brings out the green of her eyes, gives my heart a temporary salve.
She’s holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate full ofAloo Parathain the other. Both emit a fragrant steam that makes its way to my nostrils.
“Hungry?” she asks, setting the mug and plate on the bedside table and taking a seat next to me.
I don’t want to disappoint her. I know for a fact that she struggles with this recipe, and yet, she tried—for me. But the truth is, I’m not hungry.
I haven’t been hungry for a week.
Still, I sit up and take the plate. “Thank you.”
Rachel smiles and watches me take a reluctant bite, like she has for over twenty meals now. After a few quiet minutes of watching me eat without much appetite, she places a warm hand on my thigh.
“Karan… I’m beginning to really worry about you.”
I get it. This time alone with Rachel was supposed to help, but I’ve stayed in the same sorry state instead. Try as I might, I can’t will myself to roll out of bed unless Rachel coaxes me into it. She’s helped me through showers, pressured almost every bite of food I’ve forced down my throat, and managed to convince me to take at least a couple of walks with her.
I should feel motivated to do more. To get better and bring our boys back home. To reach a mental space where I’m ready to apply for another job.
But every time I attempt to will myself into taking action, that willpower fizzles into nothingness.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I reply to Rachel, though I can’t prove it to her.
The smile she gives me is bittersweet.
“I don’thaveto do anything, Karan. I do it because I love you. It’s just…” Her gaze flits away. “This is beginning to scare me.”
My heart sinks at the thought of hurting Rachel. How long will I keep doing this to her?
“Maybe you should see someone,” she continues, squeezing my thigh in reassurance. “A doctor. Or a therapist.”
The fact that she’s the one suggesting therapy tells me how worried she truly is.
