“And has it given you that proof?”
“No.”
“So what does it give you?”
I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration building in my chest. “I don't know. Pain, I guess. Proof that I fucked up. That I lost the one good thing I had and I can't get it back.”
“And you think you deserve that pain.”
It wasn't a question. It was a statement, and it landed like a punch.
“Maybe I do,” I said quietly.
Dr. Lin was quiet for a moment, just watching me with that steady, patient look. “What would happen if you did stop? If you actually let yourself move forward instead of staying stuck in this pattern?”
“I don't know.”
“You do know. That's why you can't stop. So tell me—what scares you about moving on?”
The question hit harder than I expected. I stared at the floor, at the pattern in the rug I'd traced a hundred times before. “If I stop watching, if I stop checking on him, then it's really over. Then I have to accept that he's not part of my life anymore. That I don't get to know how he's doing or if he's happy or if he ever thinks about me.”
“And that feels like losing him all over again.”
“Yeah.”
“But Soren, you already lost him. What you're doing now isn't keeping him in your life. It's just keeping the wound open.”
I couldn't argue with that. Didn't even try.
“Let me ask you another question,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “When was the last time you did anything just because it made you happy? Not because your siblings needed you to, not because the band depended on you, not to numb out or distract yourself. When did you last do anything for yourself?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again because I genuinely couldn't think of anything.
“That's what I thought,” she said gently. “You're running on empty, Soren. You've been running on empty for a long time. And now you're using alcohol and compulsive behaviors and sleep deprivation to keep yourself too busy to notice how bad it's gotten.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine. You just told me you're barely sleeping, you're not eating, you're drinking too much, and you're spending hours watching footage of someone you lost thirteen years ago because you can't let yourself grieve properly. That's not fine. That's survival mode.”
“Yeah, well. I've been in survival mode for years. I'm good at it.”
“Being good at survival doesn't mean you should have to keep doing it forever.”
I didn't have an answer for that.
“What are you afraid will happen if you let yourself feel all of this?” she asked. “If you stop numbing out and just sit with the grief and the longing and the shame you're carrying?”
“I'm afraid I won't be able to get back up,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “I'm afraid if I let myself feel all of it, I'll fall apart, and I can't afford to fall apart. Too many people need me to keep it together.”
“Your siblings.”
“Yeah.”
“The band.”
“Yeah.”
“Who else?”
