“I’ve gone over a number of things and I want to start with how to get you back out there,” he tells me and that’s not at all what I was expecting.
“I wanted to talk about creating routines and maybe …” He’s anxious as he pauses and breathes in deeply, as if what he’s about to say is controversial. “Maybe posting again.”
There’s a small crack in my chest that’s raw at the idea of it. It’s so very small, though, only a sliver.
“Let’s get you together; new hair, maybe?” he offers and I only half smile back at his grin.
“A woman who cuts her hair …” he begins, and I complete the Coco Chanel quote for him.
“… is about to change her life.”
“Just a snapshot, just to tell them you’re okay.” I nod along with his plan. “What do you want them to know?”
I offer the first words that come to mind: “I’m sorry.”
“No, no, no,” he says, comforting me. “There is no room for that. You don’t owe them an apology.”
“I’m trying.”
“I love that about you. I love you,” he emphasizes. His lips form a thin smile and it’s contagious, although the sorrow lingers.
“I love you too.”
“I know you do.”
“I’m trying,” I repeat, then offer as a possibility, “I’m working through it.”
“Love this.” Kam nods and claps his hands in celebration then adds, “They’re going to be so happy to hear from you.”
“Can I have my phone back?” When everything happened a year ago, Kam took control of my social media accounts, including changing the passwords.
“… I’ll be monitoring comments and moderating as needed.”
“You know how it can be. And if anyone comments with the … video.” I shift where I am, feeling this uncomfortable melancholy. Having to live through that moment was the worst day of my life. Having to relive it on social media for months … well, it almost led to my death.
“If I’m going to talk, I want to talk to my followers. If I write something in that journal, I want them to see it.” For the first time in a long time, a burst of motivation urges me to write. “I want to tell them about the ball in the box. It made me feel so much better to know. I want them to know too.”
“A ball in a box?” he questions and frustration overwhelms me.
“It’s an analogy. More people should know.” I’ve felt the compulsion to post so much in my life, but never so much as I do now. “I can tell them. Even if it only helps a handful of people, I can tell them—” All my life I’ve shared who I am and what I’ve gone through on social media. It helped me get through the harder times—most of them—and I know damn well I’ve helped others get through the same. This is no different. I know there are more people struggling like I am.
“I think right now we should limit what you post—”
“They saw it too. They saw it and other people go through things like that too.” My throat goes tight and dry at the visuals that flash in my mind.
“I know they do, love.” There’s a kindness in his statement, but still a sense of resistance.
“And I want to help them. I want to use my voice and help them get through it. I want to get through it together.”
Kam’s slow as he takes a seat beside me, making me turn to face him although he’s yet to look back at me.
“Kam.” I press him, pleading with him. A part of me wants to take back his role, I want him gone and not in charge of a damn thing. I could so easily get the hell out of this house, buy a phone, message someone and they could post on my behalf. He couldn’t stop me. He may have changed my passwords, but I’m not locked away anymore.
A chill runs through my blood. Unless I give anyone a reason to send me back. Sickness churns in my gut. “I feel so fucking helpless.” The confession is whispered and I look anywhere but at Kam as tears prick my eyes.
“Your love language is acts of service.” Kam comforts me, scooting closer to me even though I can’t even look him in the eye. “You want to help by doing, but right now, you need to focus on helping yourself.”
The sincerity in his message guts me.
“This is a start.” Kam’s voice is riddled with concern. “Just post to let them know you’re trying.”
“I want to post about the fucking ball in the box,” I practically hiss. I must sound insane; hell, even to my own ears I sound like I’m losing it.
I question why he would silence me. “I’ve not been on social media for months now. I chose to leave when it was too much. I knew when it was too much for me.”