The song Ryder wrote for me plays in a continuous loop in my brain, and I’ve now written lyrics to it. At night, when I miss him the most, I lull myself to sleep with those words reverberating in my subconscious.
My nightmares are a nightly occurrence again, and I don’t get more than a few hours’ sleep before I’m jolted awake crying and screaming. I know I’m spiraling into a dark place, and I’m not sure I have the resilience to fight it this time.
“You look exhausted,” Dr. Reynolds says as I walk into the room for our weekly session.
“Hello to you too,” I deadpan, collapsing onto the couch with a sigh.
“How much sleep are you getting at night?” she asks, pulling open a file on her desk.
“About three or four hours,” I truthfully admit, too fucking tired to lie.
“You can’t function on that little sleep, Zeta. You’re dead on your feet.”
I know what’s coming next, and I prepare myself for it.
“And the only way you’re going to get a handle on your nightmares is if you discuss what happened that night.”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest, jutting my lips out in a pout.
“What is it you’re so afraid of?” She leans forward on her elbows. “I’ve read the court transcripts. I know what happened—”
“So why do you need me to say it?!”
“Because I want to hear it from you. I want to understand exactly how it happened.”
“I was arguing with my mom because she was a slut who paraded a line of foul-mouthed assholes through our house every fucking minute of the day and night, and I was so sick of it! I just wanted it to stop!”
“So you stabbed her with intent? To make her stop?”
“Yes!” I lie, throwing my hands into the air.
She clasps her hands in front of her. “I don’t believe you. I know there’s more to it than that.”
“Believe what you want,” I snap, standing. “I’m done for today. I want to return to my cell.”
* * *
I sobinto my pillow that night, and it feels as if there’s an endless pool of tears growing inside me that will never be exhausted. My feelings when it comes to Mom are so conflicted. I hated her, but I loved her, and I hated that I loved her.
She wasn’t always a bad mom.
When I was younger, when my daddy was still alive, she used to adore me, and I was as happy as little girls should be. It all changed after Daddy was killed in action. I know now she was depressed and grieving, but I didn’t understand that as a kid. It felt like abandonment. And after she met my jerk of a stepfather, she completely changed.
I can see now how it’s all his fault.
He preyed on a vulnerable woman.
Got her addicted to drugs and started pimping her out.
I hated Mom for being so weak, and I never had a kind word for her, but she was too heartbroken to fight for herself or me. I hate that she died thinking I thought the worst of her.
I can’t take any of it back now, and I wish I could. Because she deserved my love and my understanding. My support. Maybe if I’d taken the time to look behind my hurt and my anger, I’d have seen the truth.
She’s a victim as much as I am.
And she paid the ultimate price with her life.
I vented and raged at the wrong person.
