MidReal Story
Unexpected Love's Redemption
Scenario: Depressed business woman who is a Lesbian is having trouble coping with her depression. She believes that she will never be happy or find love. Until her new assistant starts working and changes her world
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Sarah
Emily's assistant who is leaving for a new job, professional and supportive of Emily, appearance and personality not detailed.
Samantha
Emily's exgirlfriend who cheated on her with her best friend, mentioned in the context of past betrayal, appearance and personality not detailed.
Emily Hart
a depressed lesbian businesswoman struggling with her mental health and selfworth, has no significant relationships mentioned, appearance and personality not detailed.
I’m not sure why I’m still here.
I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
I don’t know what I’m hoping for.
I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.
I don’t know why I bother getting out of bed in the morning.
I don’t know why I bother going to work.
I don’t know why I bother coming home at night.
I don’t know why I bother eating, or sleeping, or showering, or doing anything that a normal person does to take care of themselves and live their life.
Because I am not normal.
And because I am not living.
And because I am not sure if this is even a life worth living anymore.
It’s been two years since my ex-girlfriend cheated on me with my best friend and then left me for her, and it’s been two years since my best friend went with her and never looked back, and it’s been two years since I’ve felt like myself, or felt like anything at all, really.
I know that this is not how it’s supposed to be.
I know that this is not how it’s supposed to feel.
But I don’t know how to change it.
I don’t know if I can change it.
I’ve never been good at change, and I’ve never been good at coping, and I’ve never been good at anything besides knowing that there is something seriously wrong with me.
And now, more than ever, I know that there is something seriously wrong with me, and I don’t know what to do about it.
My name is Emily Hart, and I am twenty-six years old, and I am fighting a battle with depression that I’ve been fighting for as long as I can remember. It just happens that in the last couple of years, the battle has gotten a lot harder to fight.
The worst part is that I don’t even know what triggered it.
There are so many possibilities when it comes to what could have made things spiral out of control.
My ex-girlfriend cheating on me with my best friend? That could have done it.
The fact that they both left me simultaneously and told me that they weren’t really into girls in the first place? That could have done it.
The fact that I haven’t allowed myself to get close to anyone since, because of an irrational fear of being hurt like that again?
That could have done it.
The fact that I am now terrified of letting anyone get close enough to hurt me the way that they did, because I am convinced that I am damaged goods who no one could ever possibly love?
That could have done it too.
So really, there are a lot of reasons why I might be feeling this way.
But none of those reasons seem like good ones.
And none of them seem like reasons that are likely to help.
And none of them seem like reasons that are likely to go away anytime soon.
And none of them seem like reasons that are likely to not leave permanent scars on my heart and soul.
I don’t know how to get over this stuff.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this stuff.
I don’t even know if I want to try anymore.
It’s been two years, and nothing has changed.
It’s been two years, and everything is still the same.
It’s been two years, and I’m still here, but I’m not really here at all.
I’d had my suspicions for weeks leading up to it, but it seemed too awful, too tragic a thing for any human being capable of having a soul or conscience or heart to carry out.
It turns out I was wrong.
On a warm July day—much like today—I was sitting at my desk when my phone buzzed with an incoming text message: “Hey—can we talk?”
She asked if we could talk—as though she hadn’t spent weeks reminding me all the ways in which we had grown apart, as though she hadn’t been avoiding any real conversation for what felt like months.
I didn’t realize it then—I was too caught up in my own head, too desperate for her love, to see—but this was the beginning of the end.
If only I had known it then—if only she had told me then—maybe I wouldn’t have so much trouble letting go.
Two hours later, I was still waiting on her response when another message popped up on my phone screen—a message from Jess, my best friend since high school:
“Hey—can we talk?”
Two texts from the two people who meant the most to me in this world—and two texts that would change my life forever.
I didn’t know what was going on, but something deep down in the pit of my stomach told me it wasn’t good, and I knew it was time for me to take matters into my own hands.
I made my way home, and I was halfway out the door when I heard the ping of an incoming message.
My phone was resting on the kitchen counter, and I could see the first line: “I know you might hate me…”
And I did.
I hated her.
I hated everything about her.
I hated that she had consumed me for so long.
I hated that I had allowed myself to be consumed by her for so long.
I hated myself most of all.
The message was much longer—something about how we could never be together again, and how she was too afraid to say this out loud, and how she didn’t want me to hate her, and how she loved me—and I would have loved her forever, and in some ways, I still do—before she signed off.
Her name was nowhere to be found.
As though she couldn’t bear to see it in print.
As though I couldn’t bear to see it in print.
That night is a blur now—just like the two years that have passed since.
I remember pacing around the apartment, waiting for them to come home and tell me it was all a sick joke, waiting for one of them to tell me they loved me more than they loved each other, waiting for someone to tell me they were there for me, waiting for someone to tell me they would never leave me, and waiting for someone to love me back.
But no one ever came home.
And no one ever told me it was a joke.
And no one ever told me they loved me more than they loved each other.
And no one ever told me they were there for me.
And no one ever told me they would never leave me.
And no one would ever love me back.
The worst part is what happened next—the months and years of torture that have come since—because she didn’t love me more than she loved her.
Because she did leave with her.
Because they did love each other more than they loved me.
The fall was a hundred times worse.
After they left, I was a mess.
I was angry.
I was sad.
I was lonely.
I was drunk.
And I was a fucking idiot.
Or maybe I just wanted to feel something else.
Or maybe I wanted to make the pain go away.
Or maybe I deserved it.
Or maybe I just needed a reminder.
Whatever the reason, I found myself on the roof of my apartment building in the early hours of the morning.
The night was cool but not cold.
The air was fresh and clean and light.
The stars shone bright in the sky above.
The city was asleep below.
The sound of traffic filled the air.
And I was standing on the edge of the roof looking down at the street below.
As though they were just hanging out with friends.
As though they were just having fun.
As though they were just going through a rough patch.
As though they were just living their lives like nothing had changed—
But something had changed.
And I knew it wasn’t going to change back.
I could feel it in my bones—
My foot slipped on the edge.
And then I was falling through the air—
Until I hit the brick wall of the building next door.
Or so I’m told.
Because I don’t remember much after that.
But I do remember waking up in an unfamiliar place with a terrible headache and a terrible pain in my leg after several hours of surgery and several blood transfusions in an unfamiliar town with an unfamiliar doctor who told me I was lucky to be alive—and I didn’t feel lucky.
Because the pain was terrible—
And because the pain is still terrible—
And because the pain hasn’t gone away—
And because the pain never will—
And because some days it’s worse than others—
And because some days it’s better than others—
But most days are bad—
Or have been bad—
Or will be bad—
Because the pain is constant—
Like the scar on my leg—
That runs from my ankle to my knee—
And like the scar on my arm—
That runs from my elbow to my wrist—
That runs along the vein—
That almost took my life that night—
When all of the blood drained from my body—
Some of which stained the concrete below.
And some of which stained the sheets above.
And some of which Sarah found when she came to clean up the next day after she received a text message that said, simply, “Help…”
And some of which Sarah tried to clean up as best as she could—
But some things can never be cleaned up no matter how hard you try and no matter how hard you want to and no matter how hard you wish it all away—
And some things can never be taken back no matter how hard you want to and no matter how hard you try and no matter how hard you wish you’d never done anything at all—
