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Your summer didn’t wrap up with dramatic goodbyes and a tearful send-off to university the way that most coming-of-age films portrayed the dawning of adulthood. It couldn’t end on that note, not when you were still struggling to wrap your mind around who you were.
But things were looking up.
Not that they were fantastic. Not that you could do cartwheels with joy every single day you were alive. They were just better. A transition to ‘okay’ was all you could hope for when you were used to ‘awful’.
Come the end of August, an appointment with a psychiatrist had you put in for a referral with therapy services. You had heard that mental health clinics were… slow, to say the least, so your first meeting wouldn’t be until another month out. Especially since you weren’t considered a ‘high-risk’ patient… which was fair. You weren’t. You had no plans to do anything drastic, only thoughts. Thoughts that weighed heavy on you, thoughts that hurt, but never the drive to do anything. The hope was to reduce the icky feelings in the end, so the psychiatrist determined in your screening that you weren’t a danger to yourself at present.
What was decided, however, was that some kind of antidepressant could be of great benefit to you in the meantime.
You weren’t sure how you were supposed to feel about it, at first. You knew that this was what you wanted— you wanted help. You knew something was wrong, you knew you needed support… but at the same time, the idea of actually being on medication after years of screaming into the void about your feelings was nerve wracking. After all… living in a household that was so quick to deny and shutdown any conversation about mental health trained you into shaming yourself about it all the same.
You agreed to it anyway; as an added bonus, your mother didn’t expect you to pay for it to boot. Maybe that came from a place of guilt. Or she was really starting to see things your way after sitting in on your screening, hearing the way you answered every question, the way your mind worked, how that all totaled up into a professional determining that your mental state was tanking your quality of life to levels that no healthy person dealt with at that frequency.
Your dad wasn’t thrilled about it, but he held his tongue, left it up to you.
At least while you were waiting for your first therapy session to roll around, you had these… pills, to curb the constant dread.
The instructions were to take two a day for a couple of weeks to see if any detrimental side-effects got to you, and if you were reacting well, you’d keep taking them for another four weeks before meeting again with the psychiatrist.
Within the first week you didn’t feel much of a difference in anything. It still had to build up in your system, so that didn’t surprise you.
By the end of week two, however, there were a couple of things of note.
Namely— the small disturbances that typically lit a fire in your stomach were easier to roll off of your back… and you were having a harder time staying asleep at night.
So, good news and bad news. The pills were working at they should, but you were experiencing a bit of insomnia as a result.
Was that the worst thing that a side-effect could do to you? Not really. Your sleep routine was in shambles as-is. You weren’t too concerned about the shift in hours that your body shut down for the night, it was more about the annoyance of the adjustment period. So the next couple of weeks did have you struggling to focus at work as you navigated a different sleep shift.
All the sleep you lost accumulated into a pile on the first Friday of September, leaving you bleary and disoriented as you milled about your bedroom after work.
With Mikey laid up in your bed, of course. You were started to understand why he looked so tired all the time, if his meds had a similar effect on him as they did you.
Regardless, he was content to lay in your bed and watch movies on your laptop while you picked through your vinyl collection and gave each one a quick cleaning with your velvet brush. You also managed to get around to dusting your shelves and the piles of trinkets you often neglected. Who has time to dust anymore, really?
It was odd how you only ever thought to do that kind of thing when you had someone to loaf around in your space for a few hours. It was even odder how completely okay with it he was; all the fears you had about not being what he was looking for in a partner ebbed away with each second you spent with him. He really did like you, in all of your strange behaviors that most expected an explanation for. He wasn’t bored by the fact that you never let him help, he just liked being there.
Eventually, though, it got to a point where you were too tired to remember what your next step was— leaving you standing dead still in the center of your bedroom, eyebrows furrowed.
Mikey took notice after about thirty seconds, rolling over and raising an eyebrow. “Y’okay?”
“Uh huh.”
You set your velvet brush down, and your feet slowly carried you over to him.
He paused whatever was currently playing and scooted over, making room for you on the mattress. It took all of 3 seconds before you crawled in next to him, curling into his chest.
“Hi,” he mumbled, hands finding purchase on your back.
“Hi.” You breathed him in deeply, tucking your face into his neck. “I feel like death.”
Mikey huffed in amusement. “Yeah? The insomnia?”
“Mm.”
Having him in such close proximity to you always made you want to bite him, or something. Not in a weird way. Well— actually, wanting to bite someone was always weird, so that didn’t exactly work. But still; you wanted to bite him in a loving gesture kind of way. A symbol of affection, the way cats bite when they play sometimes.
The filter that stops you from doing weird things was slacking on the job in your haze, and you ended up sinking your teeth into his shoulder. Not too hard, not to hurt.
Mikey’s breath hitched, but he didn’t jolt or push you off, so you relocated to another spot.
“You can’t eat me,” he whispered, “M’not edible.”
“Not eating you.”
He let out a breathy laugh, rubbing your back while you kissed up his neck.
“Love you,” you mumbled, muffled into his skin. It was always easier to say when you had the option to hide.
“Love you too.”
You sighed, and pull back just enough to look at his face.
“Did the pills make you feel like a vampire when you first started them too?”
One of his hands landed on the top of your head, smoothing your hair down. “Yeah.”
“But it goes away?”
“As long as you’re consistent in the time you take ‘em.” His fingers lightly grazed your scalp. “The earlier in the day, the better.”
“Hm.”
You were trying with all of your might to not conk out, fall dead asleep. Mikey was making it hard, petting you like that. You only got limited time with him at home, knowing your parents preferred he was out of the house before it got late. That was fine and fair, you never argued it, but you did try to make the most out of your time with him in your room. Falling asleep would eat away at that.
Your eyelids drooped regardless.
“You should take a nap,” he mumbled. Your eyes forced open.
“Hate naps,” you replied, yawning. “I’m not taking one with you here.”
“I’ll wake you up before I have to leave,” he offered. “You need some sleep.”
He tucked your head back against him, and the will to fight him drained out of your body like it was sucked into a black hole. You really were exhausted.
It didn’t take long for you to be out cold, dozing off to the sound of Mikey starting the movie back up and his soft breathing.
One moment, Mikey was cuddled up with you as you napped, and the next he was disoriented out of his mind, waking up to the feeling of his glasses being pulled off of his face.
“Hey, honey, it’s okay— go back to sleep.”
He blinked. Rubbed at his eyes. Made it out eventually that your mom was standing in front of him, setting his glasses on your bedside table.
Jesus. What time was it?
He almost shot upright in alarm, but she was quick to shush him.
“You’re okay.”
“Wha—“ Mikey sputtered. “Sorry. Um, I didn’t— I’ll. Go. M’sorry—“
“No, sweetheart. You can stay. Sleep. You’re alright.”
Your mother moved to the other side of the room, clicking your lamp off. Looking out the window, the sun had already set. When did he even fall asleep?
You were still out cold, meanwhile, pressed into him.
Mikey’s brows furrowed even harder.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he reiterated.
“I know, hon.” Your mom moved around to turn off the other light on your dresser. “We’re not gonna send you home. Thanks for being so good to my daughter. She’s lucky to have you. I’m not gonna separate ya, just let her sleep.”
…Mikey relaxed a bit, thoroughly confused even still, but…
“Okay…”
She flashed him a smile, and turned for the door. “Night.”
Click.
…
He was the lucky one, honestly.
Mikey sank back into your covers, readjusting his position next to you. You curled in closer, still dozing, but seeking him out in a way.
As difficult as your parents could be in some ways… he was grateful, that they felt he was doing something right with you. At least your mom did. Maybe she was truly starting to wrap her mind around what you needed.
Progressions of such a large scale rarely happened quickly, but as long as you’d let him, he intended to keep helping you push forward.