Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 267

Up until now, I’ve been doing therapy mostly for Xander. Because I wanted to be a better man for him. Because I wanted to get my shit together so I could love him the way he deserves to be loved, so I could give him the kind of life I know, deep down, in places I don’t even like to look at, he wants.

Mrs. Roberts kept saying I had to do it for myself, too, that doing it for someone else wouldn’t be enough in the long run. But I had no problem doing it for him. Not even a little.

It was easy, almost stupidly easy, to want to fight for him. Because he deserves all the fucking happiness in the world, and I was determined....the way a drowning man is determined to reach air.

I almost lost him once. The thought alone still guts me. Terrifies me. But it also anchors something in me, sharp and immovable. Because I can’t picture a life, or any kind of future, without him in it.

It doesn’t compute, it’s just not possible.

But now....now I’m not just doing therapy for him. Somewhere along the way...quietly, almost invisibly, I realized I’m doing it for myself too. I want this for myself. I want so fucking much, and if the path to that is this room, this couch, these conversations, then I’ll take it every uncomfortable inch. Talking about my shit doesn’t feel like an ambush anymore.

Opening up doesn’t feel like peeling skin off bone.

It’s easier.

Not easy....Just easier.

I’m sitting in Mrs. Roberts’ office right now, staring at the stupid little crack in her ceiling I always go back to when I’m trying to hold myself steady. And I’ve just told her about Adam’s offer.

Told her straight, didn’t dodge.

I told her I’m having a hard time even considering it, and it’s confusing as hell because this is something I genuinely want. Something I’ve wanted for years without letting myself say it. But thinking about it, really thinking about it, makes something inside me twist.

It feels wrong in a way I can’t quite grab, like my brain keeps pulling the thought away before I can touch it. And I hate that I can’t tell if the wrongness is fear, grief or self-sabotage wearing a familiar mask.

Mrs. Roberts leans back slightly, her expression softening in that unsettling way she does. “You mentioned it was a dream you shared with Andrew. Isn't that right?”

The second she says his name, something flinches inside me. Sometimes hearing it feels normal, like I’m talking about an old friend. Other times, like now, it hits like a fist square in the chest.

“Yeah,” I manage, voice lower than before. “It was.”

My gaze drifts away from her and lands somewhere near the floor, but not really on it. My mind goes straight to that little beat-up notebook Andrew used to keep in his pocket, the one that was supposed to be for taking orders but ended up half-filled with ideas for the future restaurant.

I can still see the way he’d flip it open mid-shift, pen between his teeth, smiling.

Mrs. Roberts nods gently, giving me a moment before she asks,

“Do you want to hear what I think?”

Normally that question means she’s about to drop something heavy on me, some thick slab of truth wrapped in that calm therapist tone that makes it land harder, not softer. But I still gesture for her to go ahead.

She folds her hands.

“All right. I think when Andrew died, you pressed pause on your life. You kept moving, yes, but emotionally you stopped. You refused to imagine anything bigger for yourself, especially something that the two of you dreamed up together. Maybe because it felt unfair. Maybe because a part of you felt guilty even picturing a version of that future without him.”

My throat tightens immediately. She keeps going, “You didn’t let yourself want things. Not really. Not anything that mattered. And the restaurant dream, you locked it away because it belonged to both of you. Pursuing it alone felt wrong.”

She tilts her head.

“And the fact that even now, a dream you still want feels impossible to reach? To me, that says there’s a part of you that still hasn’t made peace with his death.”

I stare at my hands.

“Okay.... but how am I supposed to do that?” My voice comes out raw. “Make peace with it?”

She exhales softly. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a clear answer for that. It’s something only you can figure out. It’s different for everyone.”

Another pause.

“Guilt is cruel like that, Jax. It makes the good feel wrong. And it pushes you to finally confront why you feel it.”

I sit with her words for a long moment, feeling them settle in all the places I’ve been avoiding. And the thing is, I already know the answer. It’s not just guilt about Andrew dying, it’s guilt about everything I did after. How I handled it.

I inhale slowly, then force the words out before I can swallow them back down.

“I feel like he’s mad at me,” I confess quietly. “Wherever he is. I feel like he’s disappointed.”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t ask me why or to keep going. She just waits.

“I didn’t preserve anything about him,” I admit. “I tried to bury it all. Every memory. Every part of my life that had his name on it. I pushed it down so far I hoped it’d just stop existing.”

I look up, and she’s still watching me with that soft, steady gaze that somehow never lets me look away for long.

“And I’ve never been to their graves,” I add.

Her brows lift slightly. “Never?”

I shake my head.

“I barely made it through his funeral,” I say, voice thinning out. “I walked out twice. Couldn’t breathe. Everything in me felt like it was breaking at once. And after that, I tried.... I really did. I’d go out there, tell myself this time I’d make it.”

I let out a humorless breath.

“But I’d always stop when I felt like I was getting too close. Like there was some invisible line I couldn’t cross.”

She’s quiet for a beat, considering me.

“Even now?” she asks gently. “It still feels like that?”

I nod. “I’ve tried again. Especially when I’m angry or frustrated, when I feel like I owe him something. I’d tell myself I could finally do it, but I never could.”

She leans forward slightly, not pushing, just anchoring.

“Jax,” she says softly, “grief doesn’t follow logic. And avoidance, it’s your mind’s way of protecting you from a pain you’ve never allowed yourself to feel fully. You didn’t fail Andrew by not going. You weren’t ready. You might not be ready even now.”

That last part hits, because it feels true in a way I didn’t expect. She goes on, voice still gentle but sure.

“And you don’t have to force yourself to go until you are. But you do need to stop punishing yourself for not being able to. That’s what’s keeping you stuck.”

My jaw tenses, but I stay quiet.

“If you want my advice,” she adds, “Start smaller. Start with letting yourself remember him without running from it. Talk about him, look at the parts of your life he actually touched. Even the painful ones.”

A slow breath.

“When you can hold those memories without shutting down, that’s when you’ll know you’re ready to take the next step. Whatever it ends up being.”

I stare down at my hands. And for some reason, the heaviness sitting in my chest doesn’t feel like a dead end. It feels like a place to start.