“Wow.” He held the painting at a distance, admiring it. “This is one of Jack’s, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

Trevor stood; placing Jack’s painting against the wall, he took down one of his framed degrees and laid it on his desk. “I’ve been a fan of his work for years.”

“Really?”

“Really. I wasn’t sure it was the same Jack.” Bending, he picked up the painting and hung it on the naked nail. He stepped back, studying the piece, tilting his head slightly in recognition. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I also have something for you.” He began shuffling through the papers on his desk. He handed me a brown envelope. “Here we go.”

Weeks ago, we had requested a copy of my complete medical history. It had finally arrived.

I ripped the seal of the envelope, allowing the pages to slide out.

My mental health records began when I was eighteen years old, when I was referred to Dr. Brace for anxiety and depression.

Quiet, soft-spoken female was scrawled in blue, scratchy handwriting across the top of the sheet. Dr. Brace’s first impression of me.

My record contained referrals to psychologists, psychiatrists, social workers, emergency room visits to the mental hospital, and addictions counselling. They labelled me with generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder, social anxiety disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, depression, borderline personality disorder, and as an addict.

I scanned the commentary on the documents:

Client is prone to extreme highs and lows.

Intense bouts of anger.

Seductively dressed eighteen-year-old.

Breaks things frequently.

Insomniac.

Unstable.

Frequent visits to the emergency room.

Self-harm.

Suicide intent.

Fearful of self.

No longer a threat to herself or others.

I read each page carefully; twenty-two pages of my past self. I lingered, remembering who she was, what she had done, and seeing, finally, how she had been perceived.

After a long period of silent reading, I lifted my gaze to Trevor.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

I felt as if I were reading about someone else’s life. Most of these experiences I could barely remember. I glanced up at the painting, the only colour in the room. “I feel lighter.”

Chapter 100

Dear Sunshine,

I wanted to write to you one last time to tell you I’ve changed. In spite of you, thanks to you, I’ve grown. Without you, without all the sorrow, the joy, the rituals, the silver and gold. Without the secrets, the lies, the silence, and the wrenching heartbreak, I wouldn’t be living consciously.

And now I know, I’m not innocent. I’m not a victim of you or of circumstance or chance. I wasn’t born into anything I didn’t have a responsibility to. I had a choice, and I accept the consequences.

But you know what? I made it, and I’m fine. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t blame you anymore.

I know, I’m just as surprised as you.

Love,
G

Chapter 101

After the hospital and the medication, after the flashbacks stopped and the darkness didn’t visit so often, after the ghosts had finally disappeared, and the stitches came out, I decided I needed to deliver the letters. The letters I had been writing for years.