Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide, depression, anxiety, panic attack, sexual assault (brief)

Andy called Abigail the night before their next session. "I'm not killing myself," he told her when she picked up, as usual skipping any sort of greeting. "I'm just having a thing." 

"A thing?" 

"A thing. You know. A thing." He sighed. "A thing, Abigail, where I think I'm going crazy and have a strong need to smash my head against the wall." 

"Are you sitting down?" 

"Yes." 

"Tell me what you were doing before you called me." 

"Being sick." 

"You vomited?" 

"Yes." 

"Okay. Is that because you're coming down with a sickness, or something else?" 

"Because I just had, like, the worst - I don't even know what it was - and I'm freaking out." 

"Can you describe what happened?" 

"You know Ed?" 

"The gut you got a restraining order on?" 

"He just fucking showed up, Abigail, at my office, again, and started ranting about how I should be basically fucking raping Remington, and when I picked up the phone to call the police, he fucking attacked me." 

"Are you badly hurt?" 

"No. Nothing like that. I shoved him away and called for Jon to help me hold him down while we waited for the police, but I just, I don't get it. I don't get why he keeps coming back. Like, does he hate me that much? I mean, he already made me OD once, does he want me to do it again? Because I'm telling you, Abigail, one more thing like that and I will do it." 

"Okay. What happened after the police arrived?" 

"They handcuffed him and I think arrested him for breaking the restraining order." 

"How do you feel about that? Are you relieved?" 

"I don't know. I haven't thought about it because I've been freaking out all day. And I had to stay at work really late, and then on the way home, I had to pull over because I couldn't breathe, and as soon as I got home, I couldn't breathe again, and I basically ran up to my room and sat in the bathroom for half an hour fucking choking half to death. And I tried to do all the things you said. You know, the breathing exercises and everything, but the more I tried, the worse it got. And I can't get what happened out of my head and-and the longer I don't do something, the more sick I feel, and I haven't eaten but I just threw up everything from lunch, and...fuck." 

"Hey, Andy, slow down. You're talking a mile a minute. It's okay to be panicking, anyone would. It's a horrible thing to go through. What are you going to do after this call?" 

"I don't know. That depends whether this call helps or not." 

"Okay. You're considering suicide, then?" 

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm not not considering it. I don't know. I just, I need to calm down, but I don't know how, and I haven't made any dinner and I don't know if Remington's eaten, and if I don't make him something, he'll start to think I'm gonna fucking rape him or shit, but the thought of leaving my room and having to talk to him and act like everything's fine is making me freak even more." 

"Do you have Remington's phone number?" 

"Yes, why?" 

"Alright. Send him a text, tell him you're really busy and don't have time to make dinner. Suggest he makes his own, or orders something. Don't rush yourself for his sake. Calming down is your priority, okay?" 

"Okay. I'll do that. One sec." Andy took the phone from his ear and messaged Remington, and got a reply almost immediately, saying, 'Okay, do u want anything? Are you home?'  He said he was home and that he'd get his own later, and lifted the phone to talk again. "Now what?" He asked. 

"Get yourself a glass or water. Take sips, not gulps." 

"Okay." 

"How's your new line going?" 

"It's good," Andy said, getting off the bed to fill his bottle in the bathroom. "It's going well." 

"I'm glad." 

"I feel really sick." 

"It's okay. Move slowly. Sit down once you've got the water. You're gonna be alright. It's just a bad panic attack." 

Andy turned the tap and waited for the bottle to fill. "I have them so often now," he said. "Panic attacks. Every day for at least a month. Sometimes more than once a day. God, I think I'm gonna pass out." 

"Sit down." 

"I'm in the bathroom." 

"That's okay. Sit down. Close your eyes. Sip the water. You're gonna be okay. This will pass." 

Andy lowered himself to the ground and leant his head back against the wall. "It's not been this bad for years. Not since just before I OD'd." 

"I know. Breathe with me. We're not going to OD tonight, okay? We can get through this." 

"We can't," Andy mumbled. 

"Are you sipping the water?" 

"No." 

"Do that. Just sips, not gulps." 

Andy did. He was quiet for a while and so was Abigail, until he said, "I don't think I can work tomorrow." 

"You absolutely should not go to work tomorrow, I agree. Get yourself a lie in." 

"Okay." 

"How are you feeling now?" 

"Still like I'm gonna pass out. What if I pass out?" 

"As long as you're sitting down, you'll be alright. Keep sipping the water, take nice long breaths, and remember that this will pass." 

"Okay." 

"You're doing really well. We're gonna stop talking for a little bit so we can focus on breathing, okay?" 

"Okay." 

"I'll still be here if you need to talk, but I want you focus on calming yourself down. Is that okay?" 

"Yeah," Andy said breathily. "Thanks." 

For five or so minutes, neither of them spoke, but Abigail could hear him breathing through the phone. Once his breaths softened and levelled out, she said, "Feeling any better?" 

Andy put the bottle down beside him. "A lot, actually. I'm gonna go sit on my bed." 

"Alright. Stand up slowly." 

"Can you just stay on the line a bit longer?" 

"Of course. Whatever you need. You've done really well, Andy. I know how scary it is to feel so out of control of your own body." 

"Thanks, Abigail. I really don't know how I'd have coped on my own all night." 

"You did that right thing calling and I'm glad you're feeling better. Make sure you eat something before you go to bed." 

"I will." 

"And don't you dare get up for work in the morning. I expect you to come into my office tomorrow in your pyjamas."

"As if I wear pyjamas." 

"Okay, well, don't come in wearing nothing." 

Andy breathed a laugh. "Who said I sleep naked? Maybe I sleep in a suit." 

"Do you?" 

"No. Why would I sleep in a suit. God, Abigail, you're insane. I think you're the one who needs therapy." 

"Good to hear your humour hasn't gone anywhere." 

"I could die and you'd still hear my shitty jokes floating from the grave." 

"We're not going to die, though, are we?" 

"I don't know yet, that's why you're not going to hang up. But hypothetically, if I was dead and every day, one of my jokes echoed around your house, would you enjoy that?" 

"I think you know the answer." 

"You'd enjoy it profusely, good to know. I'll find a scientist or someone to make it happen. Then you'll think you've finally gotten rid of me, and bam! One joke every single day. You're welcome." 

"Andy, are you on drugs?" 

"No, this is just me. You should know that by now. You know, when I did do cocaine, I was allergic to it and threw up all night. So never again." He lay back on his bed and exhaled. "Anyway, I'm not gonna pass out anymore, so that's good. But still don't go yet." 

"I'm here as long as you need, don't worry. But get some food before you fall asleep. I'm not having you come in tomorrow after sleeping through breakfast to complain for an hour about how hungry you are until I offer you food. You're very annoying when you're hungry." 

"You're supposed to be nice to me, I'm fragile," Andy said, though appreciated that they could talk to each other in such a way. It was important to him that he was treated like a person who needed emotional support rather than a person who needed fixing.