The doctor said it's a miracle I survived.

Someone was crossing the crimson creek bridge when they noticed my body floating above the cloudy water, bobbing up and down on the waves like a limp buoy. I don't know how I drifted back up, especially with the weights in my shoes and pockets.

There's no way I should've made it out of my accident alive. It was as if somebody kept me afloat, holding me up against the waves to prevent me from drowning. Perhaps it was my mom, visiting me one last time before finally laying to rest. She knew it wasn't time for me to die. Others may not be able to keep going, but I can. I'm resilient and I have so much left to experience in this life.

For years I assumed being in a relationship would save me from the abysmal darkness and bring a ray of joy back to my life. Then Gray arrived and I thought everything was better. Except, Gray couldn't save me from myself. Nobody can save me from myself except me. And, for once, I'm finally committed to seeking the professional help I need. If I want to heal, I must pull myself out of the suffocating gloom by accepting the aid of therapists who can teach me where my sadness stems from and how to remedy it.

I sustained a concussion in the fall, probably from hitting a rock on impact. After I'm healed, I'll check into Neo, a psychiatric hospital my aunt found. It's not too far away from Santa Barbara, so Gray and my aunt will be able to visit from time to time. 

As for my father, the two of us haven't spoken much since I awoke. Gray and my aunt are hesitant to leave my side, but I ask them to leave us alone in the hospital room for a moment.

"Why're you here?" I ask softly, my throat dry even after gulping down several cups of water. My father appears distraught by my question, though not stunned. He stares downward at the speckled floor, unsure what to say.

"I know I fucked up, but I want things to be better," he mumbles, still not meeting my eyes. I wish he would look at me, but at least he's actually conversing with me.

I eye my father up and down, analyzing his movements and figure. His skin is remarkably pale and he appears as thin as he was the last time I saw him. When he traces his fingers against his knee, they shake rapidly. My stomach drops. It's the same as before. I'm not surprised, but I'm disappointed.

"You're still shooting up, aren't you?"

"Look - your aunt has found a rehab facility for me, and I agreed to go. As soon as you're better, I'm going to go."

"What makes you think I even want you here?"

It's harsh, but it had to be said. The two of us have hardly shared a moment together these past few years, merely two ships passing in the night. Why now, after all these years, has he suddenly realized that he has a son who still needs his dad?

"I guess I should go," he eventually responds, sitting up from the chair and making his way to the door.

"Stop! Where're you going?" I shout as loud as I possibly can, straining my coarse throat.

"I thought you didn't want me here?" He turns around and scoffs, peering his eyes at me.

"You don't get it, do you? Of course I want you here!"

"Then why're you making me feel like shit?"

"Because that's how I've felt for years!" I scream, causing a dead silence to fall over the hospital room. My father quietly returns to the chair beside my bed and sits, unsure what to say. Once I take a large gulp of water and my throat feels a little less hoarse, I proceed.

"Ever since mom died, you've made it abundantly clear that you don't want me in your life. I spent years wishing and praying and begging that you'd somehow remember that you have a son who desperately needs his father. Eventually, I gave up on wishing."

Tears threaten to break from my eyes, but I maintain my composure. I've already spent too many hours crying over the father who walked out on me.

"Paris, I can't believe you'd ever think I didn't want you in my life. It was tough after your mom died, and I know I didn't handle it well. But, getting the call from the hospital that my son tried to kill himself was the wake up call I needed. Thank God someone found you in time. I don't know what I'd do if you..."

"When do you leave for rehab?"

My father stares at me, struggling to respond.

"I don't think we can remedy any of this while you're hyped up on heroin and I'm in a hospital bed," I put bluntly, my head pounding and vision spinning from all the commotion of our conversation.

"I suppose so," my father mumbles, breathing through his nose.

As I rest on my side, Gray and my aunt return to the hospital room. Gray sits beside me, drawing figure eights on my back while my father and aunt speak outside the hospital room. I only catch bits and pieces of their conversation, but my aunt returns a few minutes later to tell me that she's going to be gone for a few hours while they pack up my father's things and drive up to the rehab facility. Before she goes, my aunt plants a delicate kiss on my forehead and tells Gray to take good care of me. I smile. It's hard to be mad at her, even though she was also absent from my life. After all, she isn't my parent and she had her own life hundreds of miles away. My father lived a room away from me and practically forgot I existed. He was supposed to hold me and tell me everything was going to be alright after my mom died. He was supposed to take care of me and keep me healthy, like any parent should. Instead, he tried to vanish from the world. And, in the end, so did I. I'm willing to admit that we both made mistakes, but I'm not willing to pretend these past few years wouldn't have been easier if my father paid any attention to me. Perhaps once we both receive the help we need, our relationship can begin to heal. I can only hope.