Live for Me

By Emma Thomas

Twenty-seven-year-old Ophelia Lux Taylor is feisty and driven; she also happens to have bipolar disorder. Although she’s had her ups and downs, life is good now: she lives with her twin brother, Onyx, and another friend in an artsy community in Cincinnati and is pursuing a master’s degree in psychology. An avid reader, Ophelia likes everything to be orderly, including her job at a nearby bookstore. But when a good-looking stranger ends up in her apartment—invited to crash on their couch by her brother—her life begins to change forever.

Brax Smith arrives to Cincinnati with nothing other than his van, having left Florida to start a new life, escaping the memories of losing his mother to cancer and dealing with his drunk father. A recovering alcoholic himself, Brax meets two guys at a group session in an eclectic area of Cincinnati when he gets to town. He feels grateful to have a place to stay but also comes face-to-face with the sister of one of his new friends, who is less than excited to have an additional roommate. Can he win her over, despite the fact that she has no interest in being his friend?

In this novel, the lives of two struggling people collide and take them on a roller-coaster journey of good times and bad, ultimately leading to true love, devotion, and tragedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781480899759

Emma Thomas

Emma Thomas knows firsthand the challenges and triumphs of living with bipolar disorder. An avid reader, she loves painting, dancing, and spending time with her golden retriever, Edgar. This is her first novel. She currently lives in Mason, Ohio.

Book preview

Prologue

If you don’t open this door right now, I am going to kick the door down. I don’t care if you’re mad at me right now. I just got your text. I know something is wrong so I need you to unlock this damn door.

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I’m not waiting any longer so last chance.

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Three, two, one …

I look down.

"Fuck—get up! Get up! I don’t care about our fight. Just please get up or respond to me or something!"

I lean down to see if there’s a pulse. Is there a pulse? I can’t tell. My hands are shaking so much. I look around, and I see an empty bottle with no cap. I read the label.

"Shit! I scream. Call 911! Someone call 911! There is barely a pulse!" Tears start falling down my face.

I immediately do the only thing I can think of doing to help.

I don’t know if you can hear me right now, but I am going to stick my finger down your throat and help you vomit.

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I hear the sirens getting closer.

I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here.

I will meet you at the hospital! I shout.

I run out the door to get some fresh air. I immediately throw up in a nearby trash can when I get outside.

Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please live—live for me. Please live for me.

I get into my vehicle and start the engine.

Ophelia

Thirty-seven days earlier

Build a life worth living.

I stare at this phrase on my ceiling every morning before I decide to get out of bed. I painted it a few years ago after completing a few months of dialectal behavioral therapy. It is a quote by Marsha Linehan, who created DBT. After therapy, I impulsively decided to paint it on my ceiling in black, as some sort of reminder to build a life worth living . I don’t regret painting it up there—well, not yet, at least.

I roll over and look at my clock—it’s ten thirty in the morning. Onyx and Archer must have let me sleep in this morning, considering group therapy started at ten. They might have heard me come in late last night. They know better than to wake me up early in the morning—I am not a morning person. I stayed up late, reading at the bookstore after I got off work. That’s a perk of working there.

I finally decide to get up and get ready, even though it’s Saturday morning. I wish I could sleep longer, but when Onyx and Archer come home, they will be deeply concerned if I’m still in bed. I take a quick shower and put on a black tank top and jean shorts, straighten my hair, and apply some light makeup. I want to make sure I’m ready because as Onyx and Archer would say, it’s Spontaneous Saturday, which means anything is possible.

While I wait for them, I pull out my new composition notebook, which I recently bought to write down my thoughts. I have to write an all about me paper for my class. My teacher wants insight on why everyone is so passionate about psychology and why we think we would make good psychiatrists. I begin writing the simple details about myself. All l I have so far is: My name is Ophelia. I think I might be better at writing than Onyx is, with this captivating beginning.

My name is Ophelia. I have a twin brother named Onyx. We both have bipolar disorder. We moved out together eight years ago, after we turned nineteen, to get away from our parents. You see, when I went off to college, it was the first time I finally had some freedom. Onyx stayed closer to home for college. I wanted to get as far away as possible. Growing up, my parents were strict. They didn’t want us to make the same mistakes they made. They had us when they were sixteen and still in high school. They missed out on a lot of things by having us so young, so there were lots of rules. The only time I was able to see my friends was at school. Well, that’s a lie, actually, because I barely had any friends. All Onyx’s friends were my friends, by default, because he was the outgoing one, and I was the shy one.

Going off to college was supposed to be my fresh start. I made a lot of friends and got wrapped up in making up for lost time. I started drinking, going to parties, giving in to peer pressure, and smoking weed with whoever asked me to smoke. I tried my first cigarette and started smoking a lot. I was having sex with guys—well, more like one-night stands, as some might call them. I never had any feelings toward the guys. It felt like I was on a high, and I was invincible. I wasn’t going to class much, and I really didn’t care. I was having so much fun living my life the way that I wanted and not the way my parents wanted me to live.

Then the semester was over, and I had to return home for break. I failed all my classes and was put on academic probation. I am not sure why I was even slightly surprised that I had failed, considering I didn’t go to class. Nevertheless, my parents were not happy. They were furious with me. They told me I was not going back. And that I was a failure at life. They were ashamed of me. They thought I wasn’t acting like myself, and they didn’t like this version of me. Listening to all these negative thoughts put me in a mood. I shut off my feelings. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore. I started going in a downward spiral. I hated myself, just like they hated me.

So I tried to kill myself. I slit my wrists in the bathtub. I felt numb. I didn’t care about anything anymore. My brother found me. I don’t remember all the details of what happened after that because I blocked those memories out. At least, that’s what my therapist told me. Anyway, I ended up in the mental hospital. My parents pretended to care enough to get me out of there so they could take care of me from home. The doctors wanted me to stay and try therapy and medication, but my parents didn’t believe in that. And they refused to accept my diagnosis of bipolar disorder. Onyx was diagnosed shortly after me. One day, we just decided we couldn’t live like this anymore. Our parents were mentally and emotionally draining us. We were tired of fighting with them and trying to get them to understand. We wanted something different for ourselves. So we packed up our bags and moved into our own apartment. Our friend Archer moved in with us soon thereafter.

Archer has been our best friend since middle school. Our friendship began one day in the hallway when a bunch of guys were bullying him. My brother immediately stepped in and punched all the guys and told them to leave Archer alone or he would kill them. He wasn’t actually going to kill them, but he still got in trouble for it.

Archer has mild schizophrenia, which makes him the perfect best friend. I guess the fact that the three of us have had these diagnoses hanging over our heads makes us empathetic toward one another. When it is just us three, it is so much easier to be ourselves because we don’t have to try so hard. We all just understand each other and have become inseparable ever since.

I close my composition notebook and shove it in my drawer on my nightstand. I walk into the kitchen of our apartment and take my medication, which has been neatly organized, thanks to Archer. I make a bowl of cereal. Onyx and Archer should be home any minute. I honestly can’t wait because I am now bored out of my mind, and I don’t feel like writing anymore. That was enough for today.

Brax

H ow did I end up in the middle of Cincinnati, Ohio? I drove all the way here from Florida, just to get away from my dad and start over. Maybe this was too impulsive, but I don’t want to turn out like him. I need to keep reminding myself of that before I turn around and drive all the way back. As I sit here in my van, I think of all the reasons that this is a good idea. My dad has been an alcoholic ever since my mom died. He sits on the couch and drinks from morning until dusk. I never wanted to be home around the alcohol abuse, so I would stay over at friends. I started going to parties in high school; I never went to college. This is my time to change all that. I want to finally be able to set goals for myself and maybe even achieve them.

I was working all day and going out to the bars at night. I started drinking all the time. I was so unhappy with my life. The only time I ever felt happy was when I spent hours drawing and sketching. It was the only way I was ever able to escape my mind. I knew I was depressed. I knew I was beginning to turn into an alcoholic like my father. So, as long as I can keep reminding myself of the reasons I left and let the anger once again fuel this impulsive decision, I won’t be turning this van around any time soon.

Yesterday morning, I decided I had to make a change. I packed up my stuff and just left. What was I thinking? I have nowhere to live besides my van. I have to find a job and somehow find somewhere to stay. Or maybe I will just sleep in my van, if I have to.

I pull into a parking lot and park my van. I decide to go for a walk to clear my head. I’m in an older part of town, from what I can tell, near downtown. As I walk down the sidewalk, I notice a flyer taped to a pole; it’s about a mental health group that meets every Saturday morning at ten o’clock. I check my watch. Coincidentally, it’s nine forty-five. What the hell do I have to lose? I might as well try it out. There is still time to get there, and I am clearly depressed. Not to mention that I am seven days sober, and I want to keep it that way. I take out my phone and type in the address. It’s only five minutes away—within walking distance.

I walk into an old building and see a bunch of people taking their seats in a circle. I sit down next to a guy who looks to be about my age. Clearly, he has been to this group before. He appears to know a lot of the people—he talks to everyone, and everyone knows who he is. It’s time for the group to start. Everyone takes a turn around the circle, introducing themselves and telling their stories. I listen but try not to make eye contact with anyone because I don’t know a single person here, and I look and feel out of place. I am wearing shorts and T-shirt, and my hair is messy. I feel like I stand out like a sore thumb, and it’s obvious that I’m not from Ohio or anywhere remotely close. It’s silent now, and I look up, only to realize that it’s my turn to talk, so I stand up.

Hi, my name is Brax. I have depression, and I am an alcoholic. I am seven days sober. I’m from Florida, but I just moved here, literally this morning. I guess you could say my depression is what caused my drinking problem. My mom died a few years ago, and my dad didn’t take that very well, so I am trying to not be like him. I’m trying to start over, so I ended up here. I pause for a minute. Um, I like art; I sketch sometimes. And, um, yeah, that’s about it. I immediately sit back down.

They all smile, and one of the guys in the group stands up and says, Welcome, Brax. We’re glad you’re here.

Finally, the group meeting is over, and I feel the need to get out of here because I feel as if I’ve just shared my entire life story, even though I didn’t. But in my mind, I did; I’m not much of a talker, in general, so I just feel super-awkward now. I start walking toward the door. Then I hear someone shout my name. I turn around and see that it’s the guy I was sitting next to. He’s with his friend, who, I think, was sitting on the other side of him. Onyx and Archer—I think those are their names—walk up to me.

Hey, my name is Onyx. This is Archie, which you probably already know since we all just shared that in group. You said you just moved here this morning?

Why does he care? Yeah, I did.

Where are you living? he asks.

My van is around the corner in a parking lot with all my stuff in it. I’ll probably just crash in my van until I figure out what I am going to do.

Dude, you can’t live out of a van. You can come crash on our couch, if you want.

He completely catches me off guard. This guy doesn’t even know me. I am a complete stranger to him. I could be some serial killer, for all he knows. But I’m not. And I really do need somewhere to stay, and these guys seem cool. Actually, yeah, that would be really cool. Just until I get a job and can get my own place.

Of course. What’s your number? I’ll text you the address since you have to get your van. And we walked. We’ll just meet you out front of our building when you pull up.

Sure, that’s cool. I’ll meet you there, I say.

I walk back to my van and pull out my phone. Sure enough, he has already texted me the address. I plug it in my GPS and realize it’s only a few blocks away from where we were, so it’s no wonder that they walked.

I actually beat them here because I can see them walking toward me. I park and get out of my van, feeling uncomfortable once again.

Onyx waves to me. Hey, man, let’s go up first and make something for lunch, and then we can come back down and grab all your stuff.

Sure, that’s cool.

His friend Archie looks uneasy, which is making me uneasy. Maybe he doesn’t like me or something. I feel super-awkward now. I wonder if I should just go stay in my van, especially now that this guy looks like he is about to throw up. Archie wasn’t like this earlier, before they asked me to come stay at their place.

We walk into the apartment building and hop onto the elevator. Onyx presses the level-three button. The door closes. This might be the strangest ride in an elevator I have ever experienced. It is completely quiet, with nervous energy all around.

Archie looks even more anxious now that we are in the elevator. I hear him whisper into Onyx’s ear, Are you sure this is a good idea? Shouldn’t we have asked first?

What is he talking about? I don’t think he realized how quiet it is in this elevator because I definitely heard what he whispered.

Onyx whispers back, Chill, Archie. I will handle it. Onyx smiles at me. Clearly, he knows I just overheard their conversation.

Then Archie smiles at me. Why are they both smiling at me? Do they have another roommate or something? I