Page 22 of The Cowboy's Cabaret

I’m beaming at her words, the praise washing over me like a balm and her willingness to help means so much to me. “Now would be great. This was my last class and all these ideas arebouncing around in my head lately. It would help to get them out and in the right direction.”

My brain is exhausted,but I’m so excited at the progress Professor Rosa and I made today. She was able to point me in the direction of an organization who handles grants for up and coming programs, Mental Health Marvels. I don’t know the first thing about grant writing and I’m still trying to sort through the impending doom of my thesis, but she felt confident I could find a way to tie the two together in one big project.

It kind of feels like I’m putting all my eggs in one basket, but I’ve thought this through enough to hyper fixate on getting it done.

When I reach the apartment, I blast some music and boil water for butter noodles. I’m not a chef and a busy ass day calls for my favorite gourmet comfort meal. Daphne’s working at Purple Rage tonight, so Fernando and I have the place to ourselves.

Today went better than I thought it would, much like my life most of the time. I spend so much time planning for the worst case scenario—someone will yell at me, I’ll get kicked out of school, I’ll make a fool of myself—the reality of my life is actually quite boring.

The way my brain functions is annoying as all hell, but on days like today, I ride the high of my perceived success. The alternative being anxiety suffocating me until I question why anything I do even matters.

With my noodles buttered, music off and the TV queued up to play an old rom-com, I eat and think about where I’m headed.

Logically, I know I should try therapy again after the disaster of going as a kid. There’s probably an unbelievable amount of traumatized children who grow up to work in the mental health field, and I’m certainly padding that statistic.

Grandma did her best to get me to open up and find someone to trust, but it felt like no one got me. Maybe that sounds like a typical emo teenager—it’s not a phase, Mom—but it was my reality.

There was no way to explain the intense fear I felt over nothing, the paralyzing ice flooding my veins when I felt like I had no control. I couldn’t put words to it and it was torture. Anytime I wanted to open up to someone, their patronizing comments made sure I locked my words up, again and again.

In high school, I took a basic intro to psych class and from there, I didn’t look back. I wanted to become the person I needed when I was younger, and that’s the goal playing in my head on repeat when I’m ready to give up.

I’m sure there are plenty of wonderful therapists out there who wouldn’t judge me for needing support. Right? If there’s a way to get out of my own way, I should take it.

I balance the bowl of noodles on the couch and scroll my phone, looking through the therapist directory. The first three results? Professors at my school and the supervisor of my first year internship. No, thank you. The social work grad program really emphasizes self-care and reflection to make sure we’re taking care of ourselves as the next wave of helpers. That doesn’t mean it’s any easier for me to accept that I’m the one who needs help.

The disappointment sits on my chest like a lead vest, but it’s probably for the best if I manage this on my own. I have to. Or at least that’s the lie I tell myself to make neglecting my mental health okay.

SIXTEEN

the cowboy’s castle

Dahlia

Summer isin full swing as the July heat beats down on the city—our poor window unit is coughing like it’s on its last leg. Thankfully, Wes has assured us he’s got great air conditioning in his cabin.

Wesley

I’m about 30 minutes out, you girls ready for the weekend?

I’m attempting to smother the butterflies in my stomach at the thought of seeing Wes.

Seeing Wes and staying at his place.

Seeing Wes, staying at his place, and maybe having a direction for my thesis.

That’s the entire point of this; getting my thesis sorted out, and staying at Wes’ is an added benefit. It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve seen him. This obsession has to be a side effect of prolonged horniness. I’m getting brain damage from being a slut.

Maybe I can pack my vibrator? Will I need it? Is it fucked up to pre-plan a bean flick at your friend’s house? My internal monologue is rudely interrupted by what can only be described as an elephant tap dancing production—the loud thuds crashing to the floor and a murmured “fuck” from Daphne.

“Are you alive?” I yell, zipping up my backpack, heading to the hallway. Daphne is sprawled on the floor in front of our personal version of hell, aka the junk closet. We have a lot of random shit and the hall closet is our catch-all. It looks like Daphne triggered an avalanche of shoes as she lays covered in Pleaser heels and our thrifted Demonias.

“Death by fringed stiletto is how I want to go.” I reach my hand down and help her up.

“I wanted to grab my brown boots. I felt the occasion called for it.” Sure enough, she’s got a pair of brown buckle boots, cunty enough to be considered cowgirl-adjacent.

“Fitting for a little honky-tonk honey, for sure. You looking to impress a certain cowboy out there, or—?” I drift off and stick my tongue out, much to Daphne’s annoyance.

“Not the demon spawn related to your lover boy, no. Perhaps there will be a few hunky men or women, who wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay with me.” Daphne licks her lips like the harlot she is and we laugh.