Page 68 of Disarm
She nods slowly, writing something down. “Thank you for telling me that,” she says. “That’s important.”
Great. Now I’ve said the quiet part out loud.
“Does talking about it make the thoughts louder?” she asks.
I wait, checking in with my brain. The thoughts are still there, but they feel exposed now. Less shadow, more shape.
“A little,” I admit. “But… also not? I don’t know. It’s scary. But I’m not saying it was worse.”
She nods. “Okay. So here’s what I’d like us to do. We need a safety plan—for when those thoughts start creeping in. People you can reach out to, things that actually help when you’re spiraling. Not the things you think should help. The things that do.”
Miguel’s name screams through my head.
“Okay,” I say.
We spend the next twenty minutes making a list. It feels childish and necessary all at once. I sit with the paper that has my chicken scratch on it.
1. Call Miguel.
2. Text Mom.
3. If I can’t say the words, send them a song or an emoji code we come up with.
4. Walk to the cliffs and just focus on the ocean.
5. Put something in my stomach.
6. Cold water on my face.
7. If it gets too loud, call the crisis line.
Dr. Kaur writes the number on a card and slides it to me. She makes me repeat it all back. Simple steps. One at a time.
“Do you feel safe going home with these thoughts today?” she asks at the end. “Or do you feel like you might act on them?”
I think about Miguel waiting for me at the condo with caldo and clean sheets and that look that says I’m not going anywhere. “I feel… safe enough,” I say honestly. “I’m tired. But I’m not going to do anything.”
“Okay,” she says. “Then remember what we talked about. Thoughts are just thoughts. Not facts. Not orders. When they come, I want you to tell yourself, ‘This is a thought. I don’t have to believe it.’ Then use the plan.”
I nod, tucking the card into my wallet like it's something sacred. Folding the paper up, I shove it into my pocket for later.
“See you next week?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, standing, my legs a little shaky. “See you next week.”
The condo smellslike home the second I walk in. Onions, garlic, simmering caldo de pollo. The warm, humid air hits my face and I feel my shoulders drop a little. There’s music playing low in the background—corridos, something guitar-heavy that I know Miguel hums along to when he’s cooking.
“Hey, baby,” he calls from the kitchen. “Shoes off, or mom will appear out of thin air and beat our asses.”
I huff a laugh and toe my sneakers off by the door. “Pretty sure she loves me too much to hit me,” I call back.
He appears from around the corner, apron on over his black t-shirt, ladle in hand. His eyes sweep over me, quick and assessing. “You say that, but you’ve never seen her catch me walking on her freshly mopped floors.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
He comes closer, free hand sliding around the back of my neck, thumb rubbing at the tense spot under my hairline. “How’d it go?” he asks, voice softening, as he places a kiss on my forehead.
