danger night, alternately titled "a lot of Sherlock gifs"

The flu. I hate it.

Since I didn't move off the couch for about two days, I watched a lot of Sherlock.

[If you have never watched Sherlock, go watch it. This post will contain spoilers, and I refuse to apologize for that because you should have watched Sherlock at least a dozen times by now]

A Scandal in Belgravia is my favorite episode. But as I was watching it, I caught something I'd missed before. 

When the Holmes brothers are standing in the morgue after Sherlock identifies Irene Adler's dead body, Mycroft offers Sherlock a cigarette. Sherlock accepts. After Sherlock leaves, Mycroft calls John Watson who is back at their flat.

Mycroft: He's on his way. Have you found anything?
Watson: No. Did he take the cigarette?
Mycroft: Yes.
Watson: Shit. [to Mrs. Hudson] He's coming. Ten minutes.
Mrs. Hudson: There's nothing in the bedroom.
Watson: Looks like he's clean. We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?
Mycroft: No. But then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.

I rewound. 

Danger night?

I had to pause the show so I could do some research. Did I really hear that? I read through several fan theories and that's when I found this:

"Sherlock’s exit gives Mycroft a chance to call John. Everyone’s panicking: the offered cigarette was a test, and that Sherlock (an ex-smoker and clean drug addict) took it indicates his fragile state. John and Mrs. Hudson have both been searching the flat for anything that might help him be unsafe. John asks Mycroft if he’s sure tonight’s a “danger night,” and instantly the gaps between series, between episodes, are filled in. Sherlock has periods where he tries to harm himself; perhaps he succeeds. So John isn’t just his friend—sometimes he’s also a carer."

I re-watched the scene, and it stabbed me through the heart. It wasn't just something familiar or recognizable. I've lived and breathed and walked through this scene. I have the steps and lines memorized, but it still hurts to watch.

John's face when Mycroft says "danger night." He doesn't have to ask. He already knows. They've had this conversation before. 

John waiting for Sherlock to come home, pretending to read. Pretending he's not worried.

This look. This look on Sherlock's face when he walks in and immediately knows that John and Mrs. Hudson have searched the apartment. The moment when he knows that they know he would probably try to harm himself. That they have already acted to prevent that from happening. 

In that knowing, there is so much shame. Disgust. Humiliation. You were certain that this was the bottom, this pain, this heartache, this despair. Then, an act of kindness. A demonstration of love. And all you feel is anger. You're just angry. You hate them for hiding anything sharp. For tossing the pills. For searching through your things, trying to find whatever you are trying to hide. And you suddenly realize that you still have so much further to fall. 

His snippy line about his socks. Because it's easier to focus on the fact that someone invaded your privacy and went through your personal belongings. Don't think about how weak and pathetic you must be to require a caretaker. Don't think about how fucked up you must be to lose the simple right to have privacy.

And John. Poor John who just looks so tired and worried. Because in real life there is nothing funny, nothing easy about loving someone with a mental illness. 

The looks, the conversations that happen around you. The worry that hovers at the ceiling like a heavy, heavy cloud. The questions spoken and unspoken. 

Of which, you are always painfully aware. 

I feel as though I will forever be caught in this endless circle of being honest until I can't take the worry, then lying about being better, then falling to pieces under the pressure of acting like I've got my shit together, then being honest, then lying, then falling to pieces...

It goes on and on and on, and I honestly don't know if there is a way to make it stop.

...

It is Thanksgiving Day here in the U.S. An arguably questionable historical holiday, but a day of thanks nonetheless. 

And I am thankful. For so many things. 

Such as my beautiful Christmas tree:

And, of course, for all of you.

blue

In case you thought it was just a figure of speech.

invisibility

I hate the waiting room at my therapist's office.

The office sprawls across an entire floor of a tall, fancy building. The kind of building that has four glass elevators and real plants growing up up up towards the far away skylights. Business suits and the clicking of high heels echoing down the halls.

It is easy to spot us. The ones who don't belong.

For such a large facility, the waiting room is like a terrible joke. As soon as I step inside, I feel that squirmy knot of panic in the pit of my stomach. I'm third in line to check in which puts me too close to the door. The next person to come in has to awkwardly squeeze in sideways, barely avoiding the knees of the three people unlucky enough to get chairs by the door. There are never enough chairs. It is a horrible box. Too small, too full of people, too loud.

The woman in front of me finishes checking in. She walks three steps, stops, and painstakingly adjusts the plaques hanging on the wall. I check in, mumbling my name as quietly as I can get away with.

Paranoia.

I find a chair in the corner. The woman who adjusted the plaques sits heavily next to me. I notice that she fills the entire chair. I do not. A tiny prick of satisfaction.

The water cooler is in the middle of the chairs. The people on either side of it are having a conversation as though we are all just waiting for a bus or a museum tour to start. Anyone who wants and small, waxy cup of water is forced to wedge themselves between the talkers. I stare at the wall and breathe through my nose. I can hear everything. Noise bounces off these walls like shrapnel. I can feel people staring at me, and I wish I was invisible.

But my hair is blue.

Invisibility is not an option.

...

Not everything looks better in the light of day.

There are bad days that lead into bad nights. There is snow. The wind blows bitterly cold. It seems almost cruel that winter has already arrived.

Bad days. Bad nights.

It would be easy, I suppose, to see that and think, Oh, maybe she was late to a meeting. Maybe she spilled coffee on herself. Maybe she got stuck in traffic.

At work, I struggle. I struggle to focus. I struggle to smile at customers. I struggle to listen to my coworker. I struggle to keep standing when my boss jabs accusations in my direction. I have recently found myself to be the scapegoat, the problem child. By the time I leave work, I am a hollow, beaten down shell. I drive home in silence.

You're so stupid. Fucking idiot. This is how it's always going to be. It's never going to change. You're such a stupid, stupid bitch. Worthless. This is your life. This will always be your life.

At home I curl into a small ball on the couch. The Mr. brings me a whiskey ginger with a bendy straw and strokes my hair. He coaxes me to watch one of our favorite shows, and I try, but I am slipping further away.

It's almost nice here, down the rabbit hole. There are no more screaming insults in my head. There is quiet. I am lightly buzzed on whiskey. I stare blankly at the tv and for a few moments, I feel nothing.

The evening continues on around me. The Mr. is moving about the house. The kitties sniff at my hair and play with the bendy straw in my empty glass. The puppy licks my elbow and follows the Mr. upstairs.

That's when all the nothing and all the quiet become deafening, a tsunami that destroys my desperate illusion. It is too much. There have been too many bad days and bad nights and I am drowning.

It's easier this time. Quick swipes. No emotion. No panic. The pain is like waking up from a nightmare. A jolt. A reminder. Something like calm.

But the lines turn red too quickly. Little red beads forming across my ankle. I pull up my sock and the red slowly stains through. Too much to hide and I am too tired.

I climb up the stairs and crawl into bed. I can feel my pulse burning through each slice on my ankle. It is barely 8:00 pm, but I am asleep before my head hits the pillow.

Sometime in the night, I am awoken by the Mr.'s hoarsely whispered questions. I am half awake, lost in the fog. I drowsily try to say the right things, but he's frightened because there have been so many bad days and bad nights and he doesn't know about my ankle, but he knows. He knows because of the last time.

...

It is several days later that I tell him. We are huddled together on the couch and I tell him. 

I tell him.

I tell him because I can feel myself slipping again, and for the first time in my life it scares me. I have never been afraid of myself because I had nothing left to fear. But I am not invisible anymore. Not to him. Because of the last time. And I am scared.

So I tell him.