Page 275 of Disarm
“If that’s meaningful to you, sure,” she says. “But I was thinking more in your language. You mentioned the beach. Basketball. The Big Sur treehouse.”
I grimace. “That feels… big,” I say. “Treehouse trip as an ‘I survived’ party? A little… on the nose.”
“I’m not suggesting you book it for next week,” she says. “I’m suggesting you let it exist as a marker in your future. Something you and Miguel can point to as, ‘When we’re through this level of the game, we’re going there.’”
“Gamifying my recovery,” I mutter. “Love that.”
Her eyes twinkle. “I know my audience,” she says. “More immediately, maybe there’s a smaller ritual. The first day you’re cleared to play again. First class you go back to. Something that says, ‘I chose to stay for this.’”
My chest tightens.
“I’ll… think about it,” I say.
“That’s all I’m asking,” she says. “Think. Notice what your brain dismisses as ‘too much’ or ‘too indulgent.’ Those are probably the things we need more of.”
IOP days blur together.
Group. Skills. Lunch that tastes vaguely like microwaved penance. Individual sessions where I try not to make too many jokes so they know I’m taking this seriously. Miguel is there more than I expect and less than a part of me craves. He splits his time between work, the outpatient center, and our parents’ house. He doesn’t hover, but he also doesn’t disappear.
The first time he shows up after the group, he’s holding a plastic bag that smells like actual food.
“Contraband,” he says, waggling it. “Mamá says if she sees another picture of you eating a tray of hospital meatloaf, she’s going to start flipping tables. Her words, not mine.” We sit on one of the benches outside the outpatient building. The air smells like eucalyptus and exhaust. There’s a little strip of lawn where someone’s kid is rolling around while their parent smokes and scrolls.
He hands me the container. Rice. Tinga roja. Tortillas wrapped in a napkin.
I almost cry.
“You look better,” he says, studying my face. “Less… ghostly.”
“High bar,” I say, but I kind of know what he means. The color is back in my skin. I’ve showered today. I’m not vibrating out of my own body.
We eat in weird, easy silence for a few minutes.
“How’s group?” he asks eventually.
I shrug. “We did the raisin thing,” I say. “I hated it. I also kind of… got it.”
“Raisin thing?” He repeats, raising his eyebrow.
“Mindfulness exercise,” I explain. “You have to eat a raisin really slowly, like it’s the first raisin you’ve ever seen. I kept thinking about how it tasted like something that fell out of God’s pocket under the couch.”
He snorts. “Gross.”
“Very,” I say. “But my brain shut up for like twenty seconds while I was doing it. That’s… something.”
Miguel nudges my knee with his. “That’s a lot,” he says. “Twenty seconds is… a commercial break. We take those.”
I pick at the corner of my napkin. “Dr. K made me redo my safety plan,” I say. “New version. For me.”
“Can I see?” he asks, careful.
I dig the folded paper out of my hoodie pocket. It’s already a little crumpled. I hand it over. He reads it slowly. His eyes track the warning signs, the coping list, and the names. His jaw tightens at “Call Mom / Dad / Miguel / Dr. K within fifteen minutes if volume hits 8+.”
Then he gets to the bottom.
His gaze catches on the last bullet point in “Reasons for Living.” I see his throat move as he reads it.
“‘The trip Miguel keeps promising to that ridiculous treehouse in Big Sur,’” he reads out loud, voice gone soft and weird.
