Trigger Warning: Mentions of depression, abuse, PTSD, anxiety, eating disorder/weight, self-harm

Again, Remington walked to Abigail's house for their session, hesitation before knocking on her door. She answered with a smile and welcomed him into the house, letting him sit down and get comfortable before saying, "It's good to see you, Remington. How was your walk here? I assume you walked. I didn't see a car." 

"Uh...yeah. It was alright." He played with his hoodie between his fingers - the dusty pink one that Andy bought him. 

"It's great you're getting some fresh air. How has your week been? Anything you'd like to talk about?" 

Remington nodded. "I had a migraine," he said. 

"Okay. When was this?" 

"Like, two days ago." 

"And has it gone now?" 

He nodded quietly. 

"Do you think something caused it, or did it come out of the blue?" 

Remington shrugged even though he knew the answer. 

"You seem very tense today," Abigail noticed. "Would you like to take some time to loosen up before we talk about anything more?" 

He shook his head because he didn't want to waste her time in such a way. "My brothers," he said slowly, like speaking about them might have been a dangerous thing to do. Talking about people wasn't something he was supposed to or allowed to do. 

She nodded. "Tell me about your brothers." 

"Well..." He inhaled in a manner that suggested he was restricting his lungs the air they needed. "They want to finish the album." 

"Okay," Abigail said encouragingly. "They asked you to go into the studio, I assume?" 

"Yes." 

"And you went?" 

"Yes." 

"Do you want to tell me what happened in the studio? Is that what gave you the migraine?" 

Remington nodded. "I didn't want to. I wasn't...ready. My...my head wasn't ready." 

"Sure. Nothing wrong with that. But you went in anyway?" 

"Yes. Because it's my job. You know, to sing, or whatever. My job. I have to do it." 

"Do you always put your job above yourself, Remington?" 

"Yes," he said straight away. "It's..." He shrugged. "It's why I'm here." 

"Why you're here? What do you mean by that?" 

"Like...it's, I guess, the only, like, the only thing I can do. You know? Why I'm here. To do my job. Doesn't matter if I don't want to sometimes." 

"Do you put yourself in potential harm for your job?"

"Potential harm? My job isn't dangerous." 

"Well, anything is dangerous if you force yourself to do it when you're not prepared. Hence why you had a migraine. Your body wasn't ready for such demanding tasks, I imagine." 

"Yeah, but...but then what's the point?" 

"The point in what?" 

He shrugged again. "I don't know. Trying." 

"Trying?" 

"Yes. Trying. What's the point in trying if my body fu-messes things up like this? Like, I have one thing to do, and I can't even do that. So what's the point in even trying?" 

Abigail frowns. "Tell me how your body fucks things up." 

"You know. Giving me migraines. Making me...making me hurt it. Getting dizzy. You know. Stuff like that. Always fu-messing things up. Always." There was certainty in the final word that he wasn't used to hearing in his own voice. 

"Okay, Remington. If it's okay, I'd like to talk a little about the point you make about your body 'making you hurt it'. Is that okay?" 

Remington hesitated, then nodded. 

"I understand already that you harm yourself most days, is that right?" 

He nodded. 

"And you do that because your body makes you? Could you explain what you mean by that?" 

"I don't know." 

"Is it that you're unable to go along with anything else until you've hurt yourself." 

"My arm needs it." 

"In what way?" 

"In the way of needing it," he said, then regretted how rude he sounded, mumbled, "sorry." 

"There's no need to apologise for anything you say to me, I'm only asking so I can understand better how to help you. If you don't want to tell me, that's okay." 

"No, I...I do. I just..." He shook his head. "Don't know how." 

"You say your arm needs it, as in it sends you signals?" 

"Yes." 

"Okay. And they're very difficult to ignore?" 

"Yes." 

"Alright, Remington. You're doing really well. I don't want to push this topic because I know it's sensitive and you're still getting used to talking to me. It wouldn't be fair to ask too much of you, especially this early into our sessions." 

"Okay." 

"But I do want you to do your best to ignore these signals. That's not to say you have to suddenly never hurt yourself again, because I understand how hard that is, but I'd like you to delay it as much as you can. How does that sound?" 

"Okay." 

"Are you still staying with Andy?" 

"Yeah." 

Abigail nodded. "And how are things with him? Is he treating you okay?" 

"Yes, of course." 

"I'm glad to hear that. Are you managing to eat everyday?" 

Remington bit his lip. 

"It's hard, huh?" 

Silently, he nodded. 

"That's okay. Have you eaten at all today?" 

"Yeah, I, uh, I had breakfast. It made me feel, like, not valid." 

"Not valid. Okay. Do you know why that might be?" 

"Because I'm, like, not...allowed. Not allowed." 

"You're not allowed to eat? Is that a rule made by you or by someone else?" 

"Not me." He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and considered whether to say anything else or not, resorted to repeating the words, "Not me." 

Abigail was writing something in her notebook. "Okay," she said when she finished. "Do you want to tell me who, or is that too far?" 

"No, I do, I just...can't." 

"That's okay. I won't push you. Are you going to have something to eat when you get home?" 

"I'll try." 

"That's good to hear. I know how difficult it can be but the fact that you're so willing to try is great. It's a big thing to do, accepting that your current habits aren't healthy. I'm proud of you for acknowledging it." 

Remington felt like crying but he wasn't sure why. "Oh," he whispered. "Thanks."