Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths #2)(37)

Good question. Yeah, sometimes I did. Why continue living when it hurt so much? I had nothing. No reason to live, because all I did was hide anyway. But there was a small part of me that was still fighting to survive and come out of the black void and live, breathe.

“In order for me to help you, I need you to be honest with me. I don’t judge, Rayne. I’m here to be that voice that is hidden inside you. It won’t be easy. This will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Suffering from an eating disorder is a long, hard battle. But you can defeat it.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. Why did this woman care anyway? I didn’t know her. She didn’t know what I’d been through. She didn’t know anything about my problems.

But I was tired. Tired and scared. Tired of worrying whether or not I’d pass out. Feeling like a failure every single day just like Anton told me over and over again.

“It will be a battle between your anorexic self and your healthy self,” Rebecca continued. “Both parts will war against one another continuously. You’ll fight for your anorexic self, that part of you that you have grown to know and understand.”

How could I trust someone who was spilling lies to me? It was lies, wasn’t it? I wasn’t anorexic. Couldn’t Rebecca see what I saw looking in the mirror every day? But an inner voice struggled to emerge, telling me that living in this entrapment of my own self-destruction was detrimental. That maybe Rebecca was right and I would die.

“Your heart will give out if you keep losing weight. I’ve seen it happen. If you suffer from panic attacks—which I believe you do—they’ll worsen. Your hair will begin to fall out, and then your body will stop functioning.”

I met Rebecca’s hazel eyes, which were warm and inviting. She had full lips and lazy, plain brown curls that cupped her oval face. It softened her narrow nose and severe eyebrows. She looked in her late thirties and wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a beige, long-sleeved blouse. She was not what I’d expected as a therapist, casual with a genuine smile, but direct as a missile.

Like Kilter. Although, Kilter was more abrupt and forceful. But I liked that Rebecca had a no-bullshit attitude. She hit me hard with the truth—the truth. Was it the truth?

“Think about it. Because if there is an ounce of survival left inside of you, I want you to grab hold of it before it slips away.”

It was slipping away and yet, at times, I wanted to live. I’d finally escaped Anton and had my freedom. That was why I was here—to try.

Despite believing if I gained weight I’d lose control, a logical part of me knew Rebecca was right. I felt it in my body, the dizziness, the memory loss, and the constant panic. My body was screaming for food, and yet every time I put food in my mouth, I felt as if I’d blow up like a balloon—failing.

I inhaled deep. “I don’t know how much I weigh right now. The last time I was weighed, it was six months ago.” Anton had a doctor in to examine me. “I’d been ninety-four pounds,” I said.

“Thank you, Rayne. I know that’s hard to say out loud, and it’s even harder to trust a stranger. But I want you to remember that whatever is said in here is completely confidential. Between you and me. Never do I break that trust.”

I wondered whether Rebecca would break it if she knew about the Scars, CWOs, and vampires who shared this world with humans.

Rebecca handed me a journal. “I want you to write in this every day. Feelings, what you did that day, anger, anything you want.” She passed me another booklet. “This one is for our work in here. We will do meal plans and reconstructions using past experiences. We’ll do some imaging, drawing funny stick people. Also, a big part will be role-playing, which is kind of like acting. We need to find that healthy voice.”

I didn’t like the meal planning idea and writing down everything I put in my mouth. Nor did I want to see what I consumed every day. The role-playing was a big time no way; acting in front of a stranger was a terrifying idea. Just thinking about it made my palms sweat.

“This is intense therapy. You will meet me five days a week for two hours. You won’t want to come. You’ll fight me every step of the way until you begin to get healthy again. But I promise you this—I will always be here for you. You can call me day or night.”

Could I do this? Did I want to? Finding the strength to face the demons was harder than living in the shadows. What if I failed at this, too? Could I survive that?

“First, we will find you a safe place,” Rebecca continued. “A place so when you’re scared, panicked, or just need to get away, you can touch a certain part of your body and feel safe.”

There was no such thing as being safe.

Rebecca passed me a basket of crayons. “Draw a picture of a place where you feel safe. It can be anywhere you want, but without other people and judgments. Just someplace you can be alone and feel safe from everything.”

I thought it was silly at first, drawing a picture with crayons, but I took the basket and opened my journal. As I began to draw, a feeling of relief came over me, as if I was immersed in the image that automatically came to mind: a large willow tree with drooping branches that nearly touched the lush, spongy grass. I paused, hand hesitating over the piece of paper, and then I saw it, an old wooden swing with yellow ropes tied to a branch overhead. This was where I felt safe, sitting on a swing with the wind in my hair. I was about to draw a bright sun up in the corner, but then decided I’d prefer to have the rain lightly peppering my skin. Purple and yellow flowers surrounded me like a wall of beauty. This was a place where no one could find me. Not even a Scar.