Page 53 of The Cowboy's Cabaret

Maybe Wes is right, it might be time to try to go to therapy again. Fuck. Here I am, weeks from graduation having a bonafide breakdown and fist fighting my own mentally ill brain. I can see it now, my first therapy session with a client.

“What kind of experience do you have, Dahlia?”

“Only the best, hands-on training this world has to offer! First, I mastered in panic attacks with a minor in crying. I found the program so invigorating, I pursued advanced training in self-loathing, depression, and worthlessness. Beyond my education at the school of mental illness, I was lucky enough to be offered a coveted position at the symposium of fucked up brains! I really flourished during my time second guessing every decision I’ve ever made and questioning if I’ll ever be worthy of love. Let me be your therapist today!”

Yeah, fucking right. The worst part of it is, the rational part of my brain can hear how harsh I’m being and knows I’m wrong. I would never treat another soul on this planet the way I treat myself, yet I can’t bring myself to speak to myself with anything less than disgust. The cycle continues. Again. And again. And again.

Hours have passedand it’s nearing midnight when Daphne’s keys jingle in the door lock. I’ve been in bed like a frozen fish on display at a market, unmoving and cold. Daphne’s knowing eyes catch on mine and I know my time of self-flagellation is nearing its end.

She looks at me with kind eyes as she moves to sit on my bed. “You look like you need a hug.” All it takes is a look and I’m crying again, even harder this time. She straightens before handing me my ass on a platter in the kindest way possible.

“Dahlia, I love you more than life itself. I cannot let you keep living like this. If you’re going to walk around with this much guilt and sadness, you might as well start doing serious crime. At least that way, it would be for a reason. And if you go to prison, I’ll have to go to prison too. You know, for moral support. I don’t think either of us look all that good in orange and I’m rambling. Moral of the story, is, you are far too good a human to feel this way all the time.”

“Fuck you, I happen to look lovely in orange.” I choke out a laugh.

“Keep telling yourself that. Look, I know I’m one to talk—I may as well be the poster child for mentally unwell women with large breasts—but maybe it’s time to prioritize your mental health more? You’re about to finish up school, you work like a dog. It’s a lot to keep up with, even without anxiety. You deserve to care for yourself the same way you care for everyone else. What better way to love yourself than to free yourself from this torture?”

“We need shirts, by the way. ‘Mentally unwell women with large breasts’ would look great on a cropped tee.” My fake serious face falls as I burst into a messy mix of laughter and tears. Daphne and I flop back into my bed before she uses my blanket to wrap me until I’m literally swaddled like a newborn.

“See, no wonder babies like this shit. Look how calm you are.”

Rolling my eyes, I know she’s right about more than the blanket. I need a change.

“Do you want to fill me in on the cause of today’s panic?”

“I got an email from the grant foundation. I know it’s going to be the acceptance or the denial. I don’t know if I can survive the denial.”

“Sure, I get it. That would be hard. But what if it never happens? What if the email is full of exclamation points and congratulations because you and Wes successfully proposed a farm-saving grant? What then? You’re punishing yourself over the chance the email is bad. Does Wes even know it came through? I really doubt he’d want you laid up crying tonight.”

Wes did text me, several times in fact, but I was short with him because I didn’t want him to know I was spiraling.

“Call him up.” I look at her with raised eyebrows. “Call him up or I will start jumping on your bed. We all know this weak ass bed frame will not hold up under the weight of this bouncing, bitch. Call him!”

“Insane choice of threat, Daph. Super weird.” I make a very dramatic show of pulling my phone out and video calling Wes.

“She’s beautiful, she’s sexy, she’s kind, and oh she’s all mineeeeeeee.” Wes sings into the phone when he answers with a lopsided grin. “Hello, Princess. Daphne, hello to you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Email. I got an email,” I rush out.

“Like an email ortheemail?” Wes gets so close to the phone all I can see is his bearded face.

“The email.” The sound of the anxious gulp I make is almost comical. “Should I open it?”

“Nah, let’s wait until next week.” He claps his hands. “Open it now!”

“Wes, are you not freaking the fuck out? If we don’t get this grant, the farm will go under. Jasper will be so stressed and what will Stone and Lorraine do? The horses! Oh no, the horses too. And Amber’s boys…They won’t be able to grow up on theirfamily’s land. I’ll have failed you all. We’ll probably have to break up.”

Daphne and Wes blink at each other in scary synchrony. “Dahlia, I hate to break this to you, but I think you’d have to chase me off with a shotgun at this point. I am more than happy to spell out my feelings for you in great detail, but that feels like something we should do in person while I gaze into your big, beautiful eyes. Also, while Daphne’s not on the phone, no offense.”

“None taken. He’s right. Now, open the email.” She gently pushes my laptop towards me and I click the link to open the unread email taking hours of peace from me.

Dear Dahlia, Wesley, and the team at Big Al’s Orchard,

FORTY-ONE

the lie of unlovability

Dahlia