This can’t really be what it feels like to die, she thought. Where were the flashes of memories, happy and warm, to comfort her? Where was the bright light? And dead relatives with outstretched arms? Maybe, she thought, this meant it was not her time to die. Obviously she was unaware of the drastic damage already wrought on her slender frame or she would have realized how wrong she was.

On any other day, she would have been reveling in the beauty that surrounded her, the fragrance of the pines, the view showing the very tip of the mountain covered in stubborn snow and ice even in August. Perhaps it was appropriate that the last of her too-few breaths would fill her lungs with the pure, crisp oxygen that can only be found in the darkness between towering trees. Sixty years from now this might have been the place she would choose to die. But not today.

Her head was pulsating in pain from where he had rammed his fist against it in blood-red rage, the whites of his eyes flashing in a way she had only seen directed at other people, like his wife, and which was frightening. After hitting her until she could no longer stand, he had stomped away in giant, angry strides back toward his truck where he seemed to be putting his thoughts back together. With much more effort than usual she took deep breaths and tried to focus her heavily blurred eyes on his back. The potential options swam to the front of her fuzzy brain.

Try to run? Probably not possible. It was hard to tell the source of each individual pain, but at least one stabbing sensation was coming from the right ankle where he had stomped with his heavy boot. Legs accustomed to running long distances with the cross country team were likely unusable right now. He also had the advantage of a truck and a knowledge of precisely where he had driven her. The unmarked roads and paths would be nearly impossible to retrace when she wasn’t sure she could even remember her name at this point.

Try to reason with him? Maybe. His life had largely been a mystery to her, but from what she had gathered in the whispers through town he had some sort of criminal record. What the conviction was, she didn’t know, and at this moment it seemed supremely stupid that she had never tried to find out. He was her teacher, her friend, and her lover. Somewhere behind that mask of fury had to be hiding those familiar warm, brown eyes that assured her of his secret love.

From her position on the ground, she could see his shoulders heaving in an attempt to regain control over his emotions. She couldn’t quite make out the fists his hands had formed, fingernails digging into the callused palms. Quickly his head jerked to attention and he took a confident path toward the tool box in the bed of his truck. Confusion replaced reason as she shifted her weight to get a better look at what he had started to rummage for, sending a shock wave of pain through her body as her broken collar bone fragments shifted under the pressure. The sting made her gasp aloud, and his head swiveled toward her.

Even louder was the gasp of fear that escaped her swollen lips as his whole body turned toward her, revealing a hunting rifle longer than his arm. The scream she so desperately wanted to release stuck thickly in her throat as he strode toward her, and clicked the bolt into place.

“It will help if you write it down,” the therapist said to the group as she scribbled “Journaling as a Coping Mechanism” on the white board in front of the group of a half dozen patients, their hard metal folding chairs arranged in a haphazard semi-circle. Sandra, always studious even through the worst of her depression, copied down the day’s lecture title in her cheap composition notebook, a label affixed by the institution to the upper right front cover. “Sandra Millner. Partial Inpatient. Major Depressive Disorder.” She thought it was a bit too much information to have on display, but just a few hours into day one and she realized how little privacy she would have among a variety of mental patients. That wasn’t the best title for the group, she thought. More like, “struggling humans” or something softer. Less Cuckoo’s Nest.

It was an interesting group of characters, some having recently graduated from being full-time, sleep on site inpatients while others like Sandra only ever experienced the program as one who could sleep in her own bed at night. The new girl, no one caught her name, was still in the stages of working out her proper medication dose and before the class had even assembled was snoring and deeply unconscious under a thick blanket on the couch. It was a common sight, and the facility was obviously prepared with several couches around the edges of the room and a small stock pile of pillows and blankets.

Chuck, to Sandra’s right, sat upright and proud in his chair (and it was HIS chair as she had learned when she mistakenly sat in it before his twenty minute tardy arrival.) Another patient, a stocky woman with too much jewelry on her stubby fingers, had whispered to Sandra when she took a new seat that Chuck was a “lifer.” He had been either fully or partially inpatient in various facilities since he came home from a tour of duty in the Middle East nearly twelve years earlier. The psychiatrists thought he was wasting time and money, but the therapists always seemed to take pity on the man with the crippling nightmares that would probably never go away. The VA paid his bills, so the psychiatrists were overridden.

Rhonda, who was the main therapist and had a master’s in social work, walked around the group and handed out spare composition books and pens to those who didn’t have theirs out already. “All of you are here for various reasons. PTSD. Depression. Anger. Grief. Addiction. Whatever your diagnosis, you are here because you lack the coping mechanism to manage your challenges properly. Part of our job in the Partial Inpatient Program is to teach you new mechanisms so you can graduate and learn to manage on your own, and today we will discuss one of the most popular ones: journaling.” A few patients groaned or rolled their eyes. New girl continued to snore, unaware. “I know, I know. Writing is not easy, particularly if you are writing about the deepest, darkest things that scare you, but don’t worry, no one will read it. Or maybe someone will, if you let them, but that’s entirely up to you. Journaling will help you to identify your own thought patterns, pin down triggers, and eventually write a map out of those dark scary places.”

The stocky woman with the jewelry clucked aloud and said, “I don’t think I like that. What if my son were to read it?”

“That is under your control, Marta,” Rhonda answered. “You can write an email and delete it when you finished. Write on paper and burn it. Put it on an anonymous blog. Share it with your spouse or bury it in the yard. The important part is that you try to sort through what is hurting you, and writing can be a hugely powerful tool to do that.”

Writing - powerful tool, Sandra scribbled in her notes. She was aware of the glances she got from around the semi-circle, being the only one taking notes. It didn’t bother her. It allowed her to avoid eye contact with the strangers she was secretly intimidated by and afraid of. Next to her, Marta pulled out a small packet of sanitizing wipes and carefully rubbed down every centimeter of the small, swiveling plank of wood attached to her chair as a desk then proceeded to fastidiously polish the pen Rhonda had placed in front of her before lifting it to a writing position.

Rhonda turned back to the board and began to write as she continued her discussion, “I’m putting a prompt up here. A prompt is a sort of question or idea meant to help you direct your thoughts. I’m going to set this timer for fifteen minutes, and during that time I want you to think of this question and just write. Maybe you answer it. Maybe you don’t. The point is to just write. Fifteen minutes. Don’t stop moving your pen, no matter what the thoughts are. This is going to be challenging if you’ve never done it before, but that’s okay. Just do your best. And go.” She pressed the screen of her phone to start the timer and stepped away from the board, giving Sandra full view of what she was meant to write about. “Why are you here?”

Without hesitation Sandra hopped from her seat and scuttled to the back corner where Rhonda poured herself a fresh cup of bitter coffee. “What’s up,” she asked, glancing at the label on the composition book and adding, “Sandra?”

“I don’t understand the question,” Sandra answered and quickly stumbled on when Rhonda tilted her head curiously, “I mean, I GET the question, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Why am I here? Where? In this country? In this room? On this planet? In these clothes? It’s just really broad.”

Rhonda poured an impossible amount of calorie-free sweetener into her coffee and stirred, well trained in allowing people to talk before jumping in with a response. When it was clear Sandra wanted an answer, she made a practiced eye contact and said, “That’s the point. You may answer all of those questions or none of them. It’s not about being right or wrong. It’s about exploring what’s in your mind and putting it down somewhere concrete. You might be surprised at how useful it is. No go ahead,” she said with a nod toward the chairs, encouraging her patient back to the task.

A sense of frustration crept over Sandra’s shoulders like an overloaded backpack and settled there as she retook her seat. Vagaries were not her strong suit. Concrete directions were. Failure was not a thought she took lightly, and even a small task like, “Write about whatever you want” for fifteen minutes could send her into a spiral of self-loathing if she felt like she hadn’t done it “right.” Nervously she turned the pen over and over in her hand, the noise causing several other patients to look at her with annoyance. Pen to page, she copied down the question just to get her hand moving, “Why am I here?” A glance to the corner revealed Rhonda looking toward Sandra, her hands rolling forward in circles as if to say, “Keep going.”

Why. Why why why. WHY? The word repeated itself over and over on her page, taunting her with its complexity. It was too hard, especially on her first day in the program. What did they expect? Somehow walking in the door would answer all of life’s burning questions? It was stupid, really, the whole idea of writing in a journal. Her thoughts would be no different on a page than they were in her brain. But competitive, driven Sandra couldn’t let the assignment just pass by without completing it. She had to write something more than the scribbles and doodles she was currently using to fill her page, the res ipsa loquitur of a mental patient. Rhonda’s phone beeped loudly, indicating time was up. Quickly, Sandra flipped to a fresh page, wrote “Why am I here?” as as title, and answered herself with a brief, “Because I want to die.”

“Hey baby,” were his first words as he pushed through the door in the laundry room and kicked off his heavy steel-toed work boots. A cherub-faced toddler came waddling up to give his daddy a sticky-fingered welcome home hug. Sandra watched with a smile as her handsome, sometimes macho husband melted down to lift his son into a tickling embrace. She stretched her tired back, and he deftly set down their son and crossed the room to place his hands on hers and give the knotted muscles a rub. It was a wonderful feeling, his strong fingers pushing on the pressure. He quickly leaned down, kissed her just below the belly button, and said, “Hi Little Bean.” The baby in her womb wriggled at the sound of the familiar voice, like it often did. Sandra’s skin prickled in anticipation of the deep embrace that was hers next, as it always was when he came home. Even with her growing belly pushing them farther apart, the feeling of his nose buried in her next, arms lifting upward in the small of her back, was just as reassuring and warm as ever. He leaned back and said, “Hey gorgeous.”

Sandra rolled her eyes, as she always did when getting compliments, especially in this mid-pregnancy big-but-not-cute phase. She pulled her hands to his chest to push him away, but he held his caress firmly, as he always did when she fought back against being loved, locked eyes and said, “You are gorgeous. To me and to everyone.” It seemed a bit over the top, even for a sappy romantic like Brant, but the decision to go to a mental hospital made them both feel a little raw and frantic.

It was three days before. The three of them were driving home from lunch out together, as much as a restaurant visit with an 16 month old can be called “lunch out,” on a warm Saturday afternoon. Brant was talking away, putting in more effort to the conversation than felt natural. Things were easy with them, twelve years into their relationship, but despite his prodding and questioning and attempts to get a topic to stick, they mostly drove in silence as the boy slept, sweaty faced and pink cheeked in his carseat. It was an awkwardness they could both sense, which Sandra knew how to explain but was afraid to share for fear her life would forever, instantly change if she spoke aloud.

In her lap, her phone buzzed. Her best friend and closest confidant, Rachel. “Tell him.” Just two words with no lead in and no explanation because they both knew what Rachel meant. Sandra tucked her unusually thick, thanks to pregnancy, hair behind her ear and let out a long, slow breath. Although she couldn’t know, Brant’s heart rate ticked up perceptibly. Something was clearly wrong, and he was scared to know what was driving this wedge of silence between them in the front seat. The silence stiffened. Sandra took another labored, steadying breath, willing herself to be as brave as she needed to be to break her lover’s heart.

After eons of nothingness, she focused her eyes back on the still open text message to strengthen her resolve and said, “We need to talk.”

His heart jerked so hard he might have caused an accident if he weren’t stopped at a red light. “About what?”

“I…um…” she let the sentence dangle while she laboriously rearranged the puzzle pieces of her thoughts into new pictures, hoping to find the best words for what she needed to say. “I need to see someone.”

He cocked his ear, wanting her to clarify but knowing his wife well enough to understand that what she needed was to talk through whatever it was aloud, without interruption. His instinct was right and she continued, “I need to see a psychiatrist or something.”

Brant’s shoulders visibly jolted as the sentence hit him square in the face. This was not what he was expecting at all. “A psychiatrist?” he worked to keep his voice steady, “For any particular reason?”

Of course she knew he would need to hear this, but now that the moment was here she wanted nothing more than to claw her way out of the passenger door and run away as fast as her pregnant body could move. Deep breath. “Because I am very, very depressed.”

At this pronouncement, Brant wisely chose to pull the car into a nearby gas station rather than continue to drive while having such a shocking conversation. Sandra wished he hadn’t. It was a big, flashing sign that he was hearing something that was difficult to process. It wasn’t a surprise but still. Nonchalance was what she really wanted. As he clicked the gear shift into park and turned the radio off, leaving the car and air conditioner running, he again sat quietly, waiting for her to continue her thought. His eyes conveyed a complex set of emotions, a hint of hurt, a touch of sad, but mostly concern mingled with confusion.

This time, however, his waiting didn’t lead to more talking. Sandra was feeling paralyzed by the out-loud admission of a feeling she found both terrifying and embarrassing. A few moments passed before Brant said, “How long have you felt like this?”

“A while. Months at least,” she replied honestly.

His face couldn’t hide the look of shock and worry he felt hearing these words. She could see the panic creeping up his neck in red blotches. “So, what do we do? We, um, call a counselor or psychiatrist or something?” The seat of the car creaked as he straightened his spine and went into his characteristic ‘let’s fix this’ mode. “Let’s set out some sort of a plan. We can work on this together. We’ll just do our best to tackle this problem, and if in a month or two you feel like we aren’t doing enough, we will find a psychiatrist and get you an appointment.”

Hearing him call her situation “this problem” made Sandra realize she wasn’t doing her husband any favors by treading lightly with her language. Silence fell over the car again, Brant waiting for an affirmation that his plan was a great idea, Sandra not wanting to hurt his feelings. “It’s not like that, honey.” Another deep breath as she dropped her gaze to the toes of her shoes, looking for some way to sink into anonymity. “You need to understand, this isn’t just feeling sad or hating being pregnant. I…” she stopped to gain control over the quiver in her voice before going on, “I want to die. Like really want to.”

This time Brant’s emotions were unmixed. Sadness. Tears welled lightly in his always-dry eyes. She spared him the need to talk by continuing, “I know this is not easy to hear, but I’m telling you because I want to get better, to get through this, to be here for you and with you. But right now? It won’t happen. I need help, like immediately. If I don’t get it,” a gulping breath, “I don’t plan on surviving the weekend.”

As the two of them embraced after Sandra’s first day as a “mental patient,” a term Brant hated, all the depth of those emotions overcame the two of them. It was a hard day, but here they were, together, through that weekend she couldn’t see her way through. He rubbed his hands on her upper arm in a warming motion, though it was nearly 100 degrees that day. Since their conversation in the car he had become more physical than usual with his wife, some Cro-Magnan instinct to protect his bride and the child she carried, as if the forces that threatened her could be kept at bay by his fists. With faux enthusiasm he asked, “How was your first day?”

She grinned as his attempt at nonchalance and tried to match his casual tone with a “fine,” an answer he was not remotely satisfied with. To satiate his desire to be supportive Sandra gave him a detailed account of her day, the nerves she felt at check in as they checked to make sure she had no laces in her shoes, the girl asleep on the couch through the whole thing, and the discussion about the importance of journaling as a coping mechanism. “Oh yeah?” he prompted. “So you’re supposed to keep a journal or something?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sandra didn’t really like to think about what a challenge it had been to feel all those words swirl around in the darkness of her head space for fifteen minutes. “Rhonda, the head therapist social worker lady, said she wants us to spend at least thirty minutes a day while we are in the program writing in a journal or something every night.”

“Okay then, do you want to do that now? Do you want to wait until Jacks goes to bed?” he asked.

This perplexed her. “I dunno. I probably will just tell her I did it.”

“No no no,” he said with a half laugh. “You have an assignment, and you’re going to do it.” He picked up a pen from the small table where he kept his keys and handed it to her.

“Sure, whatever. If I feel like writing, I will write.” She would not feel like writing, she already knew.

The laughter left his face and severity replaced it. “In this process, there is very little I can do. I know you told me you don’t like when I try to fix things, so I’m going to try my best not to do that. What I will do, though, is make sure you are doing everything you are supposed to do to fix this yourself. If I could take this pain away from you I would, in a second,” Sandra thought he might get emotional expressing himself so openly, but his eyes flashed brightly with determination, “but I can’t. No matter how much I want to, I can’t fix it. Only you can. So if an expert who has helped loads of people through similar problems says you should try to write in a journal, you’re going to write in a journal.”

He was always good like that, pushing her to do things she wasn’t sure she could do but knew she needed to. If it weren’t for Brant, Sandra likely never would have graduated college or decided to get her Master’s degree. Not likely, she thought, she definitely would not have. Life before they became a couple was a series of unfinished one-act plays, projects begun and never completed. It was one of the reasons they were “such a great couple,” as her mother had said. She sighed loudly and said, “Fine, you’re right. But one condition.” He splayed his hands open wide in an “ask me anything” gesture. “Give me a topic. I can’t just sit and stare at the page and make myself crazy.”

Brant brought his hand thoughtfully up to rub the space just above his right ear, something he always did when trying to come up with an idea. “Why not write about Kate?” he suggested, somewhat timidly.

“That’s a pretty broad topic,” Sandra answered flatly.

“I know, I know, but it’s an important one, don’t you think?” Grudgingly she nodded her head in agreement. “Maybe start with something small, like how you first met.”

She sat with the idea for a moment and turned it over, looking for sharp edges and flaws, something she always did when presented with an idea. “I don’t know if I’m totally comfortable writing about her. I realize it’s just a journal no one will likely ever read, but she had a life and a family I still talk to.”

“Fair enough,” he replied, pausing again to think. “You’re great with words, so maybe you can fictionalize it. We don’t really know what happened anyway, so you could just take a little license and write the short story version.”

As usual, Brant had taken a file to the parts of the plan she objected to and made it perfectly smooth and palatable. Having no more objections, she plucked the pen from his hand, grabbed the composition notebook from the counter, and stalked with trepidation toward the desk in the spare room.