She nods. “That’s okay. Hope can be a long-arc thing. This isn’t about putting pressure on you to get there by a date on the calendar. It’s about acknowledging that part of you that even imagined it.” Her mouth softens. “That part is important.”
I shrug, uncomfortable. “Doesn’t feel very important when the rest of me is a tire fire.”
“Tire fires can coexist with tiny hopeful embers,” she says. “Our job is to protect the embers so they don’t go out when the tires flare.”
“Love being a metaphor barbecue,” I mutter.
She smiles. “Speaking of embers, I want to redo your safety plan.”
“The fridge one?” I ask. “Miguel taped it up again. It’s probably mad at me.”
“This one is for you,” she says. “Not just for Miguel or your parents or the hospital. Not just what they’re supposed to do when you’re loud. What you want to do. For you.”
Sliding a blank form across the table. It’s the same structure: warning signs, internal coping, people I can ask for help, professionals, steps for making the environment safe, and reasons for living.
I stare at the blank lines. They feel accusatory.
“Let’s do it together,” she says, pen ready. “First: warning signs. What tells you you’re heading into the red zone?”
“Nightmares,” I say. “The replay ones. And… skipping meals without really noticing. Cancelling plans. Not answering texts. Everything feels… far away and too close at the same time.”
She writes as I talk. “Any thoughts in particular?”
“The greatest hits,” I say. “‘They’d be better off without you.’ ‘You’re exhausting.’ ‘This is always going to feel like this.’” Ismirk weakly. “‘You’re a storm everyone else is sandbagging against.’”
Her eyes flick up at that. “That’s a potent one,” she says. “We’ll come back to it.”
Of course we will.
Next column: internal coping.
“What actually helps when you use it?” she asks. “Not what you think ‘should’ help. What has evidence?”
I chew my lip. “Hot showers,” I say. “The stupid breathing. Basketball, when I can get myself to the court. Music. Watching Miguel play video games while I lie on the couch and pretend I don’t care what’s happening on the screen.”
She writes quickly, nodding. “Journaling?” she prompts.
“Yeah,” I say reluctantly. “Sometimes. When my brain shuts up enough to let words out.”
We fill in names under “people I can ask for help.”
Miguel.
Mamá.
Dad (with an asterisk and a note: maybe text first).
Dr. K.
Martin
Campus crisis line.
IOP on call.
Seeing the list all together makes me weirdly dizzy.
“Okay,” she says. “Now the fun part. Reasons for living.”
