It had been nearly four months since Bella’s attack. Well, both of our attacks. Physically, we were both healed. Bella’s cast was off her arm and the physical scars were gone. For me, I limped when I was tired. My body was back to the way it looked before, save for the scars on my torso. Part of that had to do with my own version of OCD. Bella needed to feel in control with what she ate, how often she showered and her sleep pattern. My need for control was working out. Whenever I felt upset about what had happened, I’d go for a run or work out in the gym in the basement of my adoptive parents’ home.
I wasn’t nearly as bad as Bella, but I had my moments. One day in March, Bella had a very bad nightmare and wouldn’t come out of the shower for nearly two hours. The bathroom doors were locked and we couldn’t get into her. I wanted to beat down the door, but Esme wouldn’t let me for two reasons. One, she liked her doors and they were antique. Two, Bella would regress if she lost her sense of control. So, I couldn’t take hearing her scream and sob in the shower. I changed into my running clothes, running until I collapsed on a beach in Malibu. I had to call Jasper to come and get me. He physically had to help me into his Hummer since I was as weak as a newborn kitten. Alice ripped me a new asshole about how I was going hurt myself if I continued this running thing. I had run nearly thirty-five miles from the house to the beach in Malibu.
No wonder you were tired, douche.
After that day, I met with Dr. Myerson about the possibility of being put on anti-depressants. She gave me a name of a respected psychiatrist in the area and I was put on a low dose of Celexa. Within a week, I felt my demeanor change and I felt more in control. I wanted to suggest it to Bella, but she needed to come to the realization on her own.