Leaving me to my own devices tended to lead to dark places. After getting through the bulk of my work week, I had let myself succumb to the wave that patiently waited on the sidelines for my inevitable go-ahead to drown me. It had been well over 24 hours since I had last slept or eaten. I saw the ghost of Shiloh's face as I stared listlessly into the pattern of the knotty pine that made up the ceiling throughout my home.

As a lightly aged cabin tucked in the pine forests of eastern Maine, the builder had utilized the landscape to his advantage. The striking contrast in the warm hues painted pictures for my unfocused eyes like clouds in the sky. Sadly, as the hours drew on, the illumination offered by the sun was at its end. My distraction would be no more.

Determined to keep playing, my eyes strained as shadows encroached on my field of view. Finally blinking, my gaze involuntarily flicked to a disturbance across my room. From the corner that housed a chaise lounge, smoke became highlighted by brilliant moonlight.

I sat up quickly- too quickly- and immediately had to lay back down. I groaned as my head pounded.

"You're dehydrated," Shiloh's voice warbled as I turned to watch him rise from the elongated seat. "Among other things..." he trailed, taking a drag from a cigarette.

Closing my eyes, I reprimanded him, "No smoking in my house."

"Why?"

Opening my eyes, I found him crouched down by my bed so our faces were level. "Because it's gross," I said matter-of-factly.

"But why do you care? It's not like you are going to be around for much longer. Not at this rate."

My eyes narrowed. "Are you here to help or just to try and get a rise out of me?"

"Can't it be both?" He let out a smoke ring before standing to strode out of my bedroom.

Sluggishly, I propped myself up onto my elbows. My body was sore with exhaustion but I knew I could get around if I took it slowly. If I started to feel faint, I only had to lay down to keep from passing out. Sadly, it was a proven method.

Taking my time, I dragged my feet towards the only source of light in the house. Helping himself to some focaccia and red sauce, my guest had shed his heavy coat on my kitchen island and sat himself up on the countertop.

Pausing to resituate the outerwear on the back of one of the stools, I took a steadying breath before gathering my favorite cup. It was a thick, plain looking glass that once housed a uniquely fragrant candle. Most of my favorite things were either repurposed items or salvaged from the second-hand store.

I downed a glass and a half of water before my stomach clenched. In hindsight, it was probably a bad idea to let the tap run so cold. An aggressive chill ran through my body and my bladder suddenly announced itself all at once. I practically tossed the glass aside as I sought out the bathroom.

It was an exhausting, and much longer than necessary experience, to say the least. I took my time making my way back to the kitchen, in no hurry to see what my uninvited guest might be up to. Knowing him, he was probably gone already; his job done. This thought made me pause mid-step. It hurt to want him to stay.

Deciding I didn't want to see him after all, I turned back into my bedroom. The sheets were cold but so was I. Pulling the layers up to my chin, I rolled onto my side and tried to clear my mind so I could finally rest. There had to be a smidgen of a chance that I simply wouldn't wake.

"Why can't you buy regular milk like a normal person? Do you realize what an insult to God it must be for you all to go out of your way to come up with alternative milks? Like He didn't give you enough sources already."

I heard Shiloh move around my room but continued to ignore him.

"You're just being difficult," he continued. "You probably aren't even lactose intolerant..." His rant continued on without need for prompting and I found myself lulled by the ambience of his annoyance.

Anxious dreams awaited me, sending me through dangerous and discombobulated architecture, only to become more and more lost with each turn I took and each door passed through.

Then the dreams stopped. The familiar weight I had been craving returned and I slept soundly.

I awoke to an empty house. Even though it was expected, and for the best, I couldn't deny the pang of loneliness that was festering deep within me. It was so much easier to be content in my solitude when I wasn't being teased with attention.

I had an appointment with Joyce and I had lucked out with an afternoon slot. The late appointments always left me wasting my day, watching the clock until whatever obligation I had committed to at such an inconvenient time, and the early ones didn't allow me to sleep in.

As satisfying as it was to cross off as many tasks on my to-do list as possible, the effect waking up naturally had on me was worth having a shorter day to utilize.

I had my coffee on my porch, the steam almost blinding in the crispness of springtime. It may not be early but the day still tended to warm late. I took a moment to try and appreciate the birdsong and budding greenery. Nature's hibernation was over. All the energy and life surrounding me had retreated into itself to tally, conserve, and prioritize.

Was that what I had been doing? Taking a few mental health days, conveniently lined up with my days off? I'm sure Joyce was going to have a field day with this train of thought.

I ran a few errands before heading to my appointment. It was a short drive to Redfield on Route 1. If you kept going, you'd eventually find yourself in Shellworth, where the box stores lived. There was a good stretch of woods between our little offshoot and the small 'city' where everyone did their material shopping or utilized amenities like the hospital. It was also the local job hub. Unless fit to work in one of the ten establishments available, it was off to Shellwork for a paycheck.

On the other side of Blackwoods was Township 9, a purely residential town that petered off into the boonies. People out there were few and far between and usually self-sufficient; if that wasn't obvious from the fact that they had never named their claim to acreage. Somedays I envied them; but most of the time I recognized the reality that, on some level, being that far removed was suicidal, for someone like me. Being a burden was grounding.

Speaking of which... I pulled into the dirt lot of River Crossing. Recognizing Joyce's CR-V, I parked my Outback next to her, looking like a compact version of her vehicle. River Crossing was a small therapy office shared by a handful of independent practitioners. They had set up shop in a house that sat on the edge of the Amonsook River. This time of year the water level was high and you could hear the rush from within the 'office.' There were large windows that gave the building a very homey and non-clinical feel. It was one of the features that had drawn me to this establishment.

My boots crunched across the gravel, thankful to be done with ice, and up the steps. Once seated on the cushioned recliner that faced the doorway, I settled into a nervous habit of rubbing my thumbs into my palms.

I watched Joyce take notice, but she didn't comment, instead choosing to open the way she always did. "How was your week?"

Knowing that I had cleaned up well, she was genuinely unsure. I had perfected the act of hiding the destruction my breakdowns brought on and was confident she was none the wiser. These appointments were a commitment I took seriously though; and that meant bringing honesty to the table.

"It was rough. I kind of just pulled myself back together," I said, digging more firmly into my hands, until a pinch halted my subconscious actions.

Joyce nodded, her wispy greying hair following her movements. "Did something happen to bring that dark spell on?" Her attentive gaze stayed on me.

I shook my head. "No. I mean, not more than usual."

She waited, letting me rethink my response.

"Well," I started unsure of how to give an honest answer. "There may have been something... someone," I concluded hesitantly.

"Oh?" she prodded gently.

"I may have seen that figure again- the one I described last time we talked."

Joyce's gaze flicked over her notes quickly. "Shiloh." She looked to me for confirmation.

I nodded. "Yeah, I've seen him a few times now, actually." I could feel the truth rising within me; it was about to spill out any second. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Either he's not real and I'm finally losing it, or he is real and that's somehow worse because now I have this otherworldly stalker." My words tumbled out in a rush, leaving me exasperated.

"Stalker? As in, you see him everywhere you go?" A quick scribble before attention is fully placed back on me.

A shrug feels much more taxing than it should. "Well, he expressed that he had already been following me. He's just not hiding so much anymore."

"And has anyone else responded to his presence?"

I thought back to our outing to Polly's. The waitress had acknowledged him... right? "I- I don't know. I'm usually alone when he shows up."

Through my confusion, I caught something sympathetic in Joyce's light blue eyes; the color of faded jeans. "And he tends to show up at just the right time?"

Shaking my head, I fight back the frustration tears that are building. "I don't think I'm manifesting him," I whisper, because a stronger voice would simply crack. "I really don't."

"Okay, well why don't you tell me more about your encounters."

I do. I tell her about the way he hints at his background (and all the ways I'm fabricating a mythology of my own) and I tell her about how he pushes my buttons (breaking my cycles and redirecting my pain) and how he always manages to disappear when the job is done (how very convenient.)

"Autumn, the fact is, dissociative disorders can manifest later in life but there are many things we can do to rule that out, or we can deal with whatever changes you are going through. If this 'person' has the ability to alter how, or even if, they are perceived, I say test that!" she said enthusiastically.

I nod, affirmative this time. I'm not excited about the idea of my brain creating new hallucinogenic hurdles for me to deal with though.

There's a silence that Joyce lets build. She can see that I'm struggling with letting something else, something even more meaningful, out. Because this isn't just about what I'm seeing and hearing, but most importantly about what I'm feeling. It's about how he makes me feel, and how badly I want more of that.

"I want him to be real." My eyes brim with tears. The shame that I feel for wanting to be saved is choking me and I hate it.

An outstretched hand offers me a box of tissues, which I gladly accept with a tiny word of appreciation. "Of course you do," she said without judgement. "What you are describing, though not ideal, is a way to feel safe from yourself. And however that is being exhibited, it means that deep down, you are still fighting. Even when you feel like you are in the deepest darkest hole, feeling your very worst, there is a part of you in there," she emphasizes pointing to my heart, "that wants you to push through it. I say embrace it."

I'm exhausted when I leave but I promise to be attentive and to start recording my 'episodes.' My session with Joyce has woken me up and though I may be tired, I'm also starting to form a plan.