Xanax.

Six weeks.

Then I'd come home.

Or—I could go home now.

I chose Xanax.

Whatever.

Nothing was waiting for me there.

*

Twenty-two weeks post Amanda.

Xanax.

Treatment for anxiety.

I admit, I needed it.

Dad calls almost every day. He says he can already hear the change in me. It's only been a week, but it doesn't surprise me, he knows me better than I fake it.

The nightmares are still there, but I don't panic when I have them. It's almost like they're dulled down. I've only dreamed about Amuhda once. She's healing well, just FYI.

I've been on very light duties here, but Manny thinks I should maybe go into town and start pushing paper, go back to the admin side, just until I get my shit together. There's still a medic site there, but it's closer to facilities so it makes it easier. He says he won't strip me completely of the medical side; I'm here to learn, after all.

Manny—he's an asshole, but he cares. He cares more than he probably should.

*

Twenty-four weeks post Amanda.

The Xanax helps. A lot.

I moved to the admin camp.

The dreams are less frequent, but there are other side effects I'm hoping will pass. I've been told Amuhda is recovering well, at least there's that. Things are a lot less hectic here. I feel like I'm not doing enough, but I know that it's probably all I'm capable of at the moment.

A new girl started today. She has an accent, from what I've heard of her speak. She hasn't introduced herself yet, but I've caught her looking over at me a few times. She seems nice enough.

*

Twenty-five weeks post Amanda.

I helped deliver a miracle today.

I swear to God, this place . . . I don't know. There are so many emotions that come with being here. So much sadness and heartache, and then this happens. I get to hold a brand new life. Rebekah, the girl I wrote about earlier, she was there, too. I think our smiles matched each other's. What an experience.

She came into my room afterwards, her smile still huge. We talked about it for a bit. She's from France. She sat on the bed next to me. I freaked out, jumped up, and moved as far away from her as possible. Is that weird? I think it's weird. I just didn't want her to get the wrong idea. Plus, I kind of just wanted that time afterwards to think about Amanda. I wanted to call her. I wanted to tell her all about it. I wanted to encourage her to follow that path, but then I thought about it some more . . . And really? Who the fuck was I to encourage her to do anything?

Nightmare count: too many.

Flashback count: too many.

Dreams about Amanda: not enough.

I look at her picture too long, too often.

I wonder if she's forgotten about me completely.

*

Twenty-eight weeks post Amanda.

I got a paid position here. I applied for anything and everything, and I got one. I wasn't ready to leave. Or maybe it was that I wasn't ready to go home. They're two completely different things.

I'm a coward. But I'm also realistic. I just wasn't ready. Dad was not happy.

A psychologist came to camp today, hired by Doctors Without Borders, to make sure we're all mentally stable. I was with him for two hours. I'd gotten used to the whole talking and listening, and back and forth that comes with those meetings from when I was a kid. I'm not a kid anymore, but it's all the same.

He said I had PTSD.

I couldn't argue with him.

I knew it was something similar.

I begged Dad to let me go home after what happened the night of my birthday. I didn't want to stay in the hospital. Not with her there, and me not being able to do anything about her state. I was bad, but nothing that bed rest and decent painkillers couldn't fix. The beating I could take—it was what happened to Amanda that I couldn't deal with.

That first night I came home, I had the first of many nightmares. This one wasn't really a nightmare, though; it was just a replay of what had happened that night. The vision was so raw, so real, it hurt just as much as it did the first time. Then something happened, I'm not entirely sure what, but it was like I reverted back to the seven-year-old me. I think it was my way of dealing with it. I didn't want anyone asking questions, and I didn't want to offer anything.

Truth is, I know it was my fault. First, the shit that happened that summer with her. And then that. How could it not be my fault? How can anyone ever say that if she hadn't have met me, if she wasn't part of my life, that that shit still would have happened? No fucking chance. 

I switched my phone off and refused to answer the door. I know Jake was there a few times, and even Cameron and Lucy, but they knocked a couple times and left. That was it.

Dad came in and told me that she'd been released a few days later, and everything was fine. Of course, I didn't say anything. I laugh about it now, because it seems so pathetic, but I hid out in the darkness of my closet. I had no idea why until I told the psychologist today. He thought it was my way of punishing myself, like they used to when I was a kid.

It makes sense.

After the fifth day, Dad told me about how he went to 'find himself' after Tina, his high school sweetheart died. He said he gave himself six months to sort his shit out, and then he'd come home. He said it helped him. It even motivated him to make the most of his life, with or without her. I wanted that. I wanted that reassurance that I'd still be able to live a normal life without her. He offered me the same thing. Six months. No more.