Hostage Situation

I left work early on Friday to go to a doctor's appointment. A routine check up; nothing out of the ordinary. As I walked out the door, I heard a familiar voice call out to me from the parking lot-

And he asked me, "Are you okay?" With a pure look of concern in his deep blue eyes. He was the one who was always there and could always read me- in ways nobody else could. I could never hide anything from him. He saw through my hurt, he saw through my pain.

He could see my darkness. He loved me, anyway.

I smiled at him, shrugged, and said I had an appointment to get to.

Just hearing the words, "Are you okay?" was too much right now.

I am not okay.

6 days ago, I was released from a hostage situation and nobody around me knew about it.

I walked into the doctor's office, checked in, and sat in the chair. I looked around at everyone around me. Each absorbed in their phones. I wondered what they were looking at- what was so important that they were willing to miss out on the world around them?

They didn't know what it was like to be held hostage. They didn't understand what freedom they possessed.

Or maybe they did.

My name was called, I walked back, and I sat in the familiar chair. I had been in this office many times before- and usually never for the right reasons. I sat across from the nurse, answering her questions, it was all routine.

She stopped, she looked at me, and she asked, "Are you okay?"

It was the beginning of the depression screening- also routine. I always hated these. It is usually easy for me to lie, but not today. I started to say "Yes" but as my eyes filled with tears and I couldn't speak- she knew the answer was "No."

"It's okay. Whenever you're ready." She looked at me with a kindness and understanding that made it harder for me. I was not accustomed to compassion.

I would never be ready and didn't want anyone to know. I wanted to get my medication refills and leave. I wanted to go home, hide from the world, and forget what existed around me for the weekend.

She didn't know I just left a hostage situation. Nobody did.

After a few minutes, that seemed like hours, I regrouped. I looked over, made a brief eye contact, but eye contact was still too difficult. I was still broken and defeated. As my eyes filled with tears, I could barely speak the words, "It's...it's just been really hard lately."

She handed me a box of tissues and we sat in silence for several eternities longer, before I had the strength to go on...

She was the first person I talked to about it. I told her about the ways I was manipulated. The ways I was tricked into the situation. I told her how it happened. I told her I was embarrassed and ashamed, because I should have known better.

I had been in a hostage situation before.

She reminded me that none of it was my fault. Others would later go on to remind me of the same- helping me regain myself.

And when the doctor came in- we didn't talk about my medications right away. We talked about a 72-hour hold: my depression screening came back as high risk, and I had a long history of risky behaviors. I admitted to him that I had used the suicide prevention line every night that week. He put his hand on my shoulder, not saying anything in response. He knew, as well as I did, that the recommendation was the right one.

A second hostage situation. I couldn't leave or do what I wanted for 72 hours, while they monitored me. They monitored everything- what I ate, what I did, what I said. I felt no freedoms, I felt no privacy. I had, once again, been stripped of everything- including my pride, sense of self, and dignity.

I just wanted to exist.

They just wanted to make sure I was safe.

I would never be safe, and they didn't understand that. I was forever trapped with myself. A third hostage situation.

I left feeling better and returned to work. I resumed to life and pretended everything was fine- it never happened.

Just like the hostage situation.

Nobody would have believed it anyway. They knew who I was: the smart one, the happy one, the one who made everyone else around them laugh. I wasn't the one who ended up in hostage situations.

I walked into a different building, in a different city, on a different day, and there he was.

"Are you okay?"

He brought me lunch. He knew me too well. He knew I wasn't eating- he knew my history with eating disorders. He saw the rapid weight loss. About 15 pounds since I last saw him.

And he wanted to take care of me in the small ways that he was allowed- when I constantly boxed him out of my life.

This pain was never his to deal with, it was never his to heal. But there he was. He was always there- knowing what needed to be done to fix me.

He loved me in the ways I should allow someone to love me, but he wasn't mine to love.

"Everything is just stressful right now. Thank you for lunch. I am eating. This is just stress." I pointed down at my body. I pretended like I would eat the food he brought me; knowing that I wouldn't. I added a laugh for good measure.

He smiled, knowing I was lying to him, but still wanted to care for me. "Any time your stress needs reduced, I can bring you lunch. Or whatever you need."

He was always a phone call away. I knew that about him. He loved me at my worst, over and over; he would never get to experience me at my best.

Another came walking towards me- he eyed him up and down. He knew. He always knew. He gave me a pat on the knee, smiled, and said, "You still have something of mine."

Then he was gone. It was never for long. We both knew that.

I had a lot of what was his-

-And he held nothing that was mine.

We both also knew that, as well.

Maybe I am his hostage situation.