92"If someone was physically ill, people were understanding and apologetic and wished them a speedy recovery. But if someone was mentally ill, no one mentioned it?" – In which Sheldon tries to help Amy cope with her negative self-image and the accompanying feelings. Set in season 7. Canon.
WARNING: Mentions of self-harm, depression and suicidal thoughts.
A/N This may not be what you expected me to write after the smut-filled stuff I usually write. I'm glad to see you here regardless. This story will consist of approximately 10-15 parts, most of it is already finished and I'll update twice a week.
The subject is something that hits close to home for me, and maybe for you as well. I hope this can help you cope with whatever struggles you have, knowing you are not alone in this.
Does it hit too close to home? Then please see the follow up A/N at the bottom.
The Semicolon Significance
Part I
The first time he saw it, he wasn't able to process what he saw at all.
He had been preoccupied enough as it was, trying to bathe her sick and fragile body while pretending not to peek too much at her backside and other lady parts.
He would think it over later, when she wasn't still sick. He was beginning to worry about her health.
Her physical health was fine though. She liked him spanking her as a punishment. She enjoyed it.
Was she one of those people who got off on pain? Those existed. He had read about it in that book that Leonard had given him, and Howard Wolowitz was such a sexual pervert, he had spoken more often than not about the darker side of sex.
But these markings on her upper arm hadn't looked like the work of someone else.
They looked self-inflicted, and it worried him like nothing ever had.
"Why are you reading my mother's book?" Leonard asked, his brow furrowed.
Of course that would be what Leonard would focus on; the fact that he was reading a book on mental health by his mother. Not the fact that he was reading a book on mental health in the first place.
"I like to broaden my mind sometimes, Leonard," Sheldon said, finding the chapter he was looking for.
Auto-mutilation.
He swallowed thickly when he looked upon the picture of some person's arm, with even shaped cuts all over the skin.
"Leonard," he called out, hoping the distress in his voice wasn't too evident. "Could you get me a hot beverage?"
His roommate looked at him. Apparently the distress was visible in his entire demeanour.
"Sure, buddy."
It was a random Monday night and they were all having dinner at the apartment. Amy laughed uproariously at a joke Howard told, and Sheldon could only stare at her.
She looked happy. Acted happy, at least.
Were they new, the cuts he had seen on her skin? Or were they from a time before he knew her?
He hoped that it was the latter, but he couldn't be sure. Not without asking. But how would one even broach that subject?
He kept a close eye on her the next weeks. He was sure he would be able to tell if something was up. Would she favour her right arm even more? He tried to recall if he had seen any cuts on her legs as well, but he had kept his eyes above the waist as much as possible. There was no way of knowing.
He saw no change in her behaviour. And to his knowledge nothing had happened that could possibly upset her in any way. But what did he know, really. Especially about her past.
He must have looked deep in thought.
"Sheldon, are you alright?"
He gave her a tight smile. He wished he could ask her the same and be sure to get an honest answer.
It wasn't like he had forgotten about it – how could he, with his eidetic memory – but he had watched her closely and her happiness just couldn't be faked. So, he put his mind at ease with the assumption that it had to have been old scars, from a time before he was in her life.
It just had to be, because he still didn't know how to approach this subject at all.
He was having dinner at her place months later. He excused himself to use the restroom before dinner, when he saw something that made his earlier assumptions seem like a fool's hope.
Bloodied bandages in the trash can.
He felt sick to his stomach. She must have thought he wouldn't look, but he needed to get rid of the doubts. It turned out that they had every reason to be there.
For a few seconds he mentally calculated the days in his head, but he knew it was about a week to soon for that. Hesitantly, he opened the cabinet above the sink.
Paracetamol, ibuprofen, Pepto Bismol. A thermometer. Another electric toothbrush. Condoms. Bandages. Plasters.
A small tin box with scalpels in various sizes. Some looked brand new. But one of them had a used grip and a shinier blade – it was recently cleaned.
Sheldon swallowed away the bile in his throat quickly when Amy called him.
"I'll be right out!" he replied, and hastily closed the cabinet.
Amy gave him her usual radiant smile as he sat down in front of her.
Sheldon felt uneasy. How could she look at him like nothing was wrong? She was her normal self. How was he supposed to know when something was going on with her when she acted no different than usual?
He spent the entire dinner wondering where she used that scalpel, and why he wasn't able to tell based on her behaviour.
Amy looked at him quizzically from time to time, and he made some lame excuse of Barry Kripke bothering him at work.
She got up to the kitchen to do the dishes, and he walked over to her desk, pretending to be interested in the books she had there. He scribbled the message hurriedly on a post-it.
He would put it somewhere before he left, hoping she would never find it.
But that hope was futile as well.
He was exhausted from assisting his sister in giving birth, and he had outgrown his childhood bed where he currently tried to get some rest. He was only just able to get the required sleep, when his phone buzzed insistently on his nightstand.
He wouldn't have answered – it was the middle of the night – but a strange gnawing in his gut told him to at least check who was calling him.
Amy.
It was 4:48 AM. That made it 2:48 AM in Pasadena.
"Hello?" he croaked softly into the receiver. There was no sound on the other end. He had to check it he had accepted the call at all, but he had.
Then he heard it, gasps for air. Shuddering breaths. Quiet sobs.
"Amy," he mumbled. He didn't know what to say. But at least she had read his note first before she had used that scalpel on herself. Her quiet tears turned into heaving sobs.
"Sssshh," he shushed her quietly. "It's okay."
Amy only cried harder. She seemed to be gasping for air, and the blubbering sounds on the other end of the receiver continued.
He kept shushing her, because he really didn't know what else to do. "It's okay," he mumbled again, at loss of what else to say. Amy hiccupped.
"No, it isn't," she practically snarled.
"Yes, it is," Sheldon rebutted. "You called me."
She was silent.
Didn't she understand? By calling him, she had crossed a lot of hurdles all at once. A lot of things didn't have to be said now, because the act of calling him said it all: she had been so utterly miserable that she saw no other option but to hurt herself – an act he still didn't understand, and she had found his note lodged into the tin box with the scalpels (Don't. Please call me – S.C.) and she had done just that.
He let her breathe for a minute.
"Talk to me, Amy," he whispered. If he wasn't in Texas right now, he'd be on his way over to her already. He would have woken up Leonard and claimed an emergency – which it was.
Amy was mentally ill. And he hadn't seen it. Or he had, and he had chosen to pretend he didn't know the extent of her illness, because it was easier for him to do so.
He had to be the worst boyfriend in the world.
"I-I can't," she answered after a while.
Sheldon nodded, and then noticed she couldn't see his face. Should he Facetime her? Would that be better?
"Hold on," he said. "I'm Facetiming you."
He didn't wait for her to acknowledge his request. He switched to Facetime and waited for the image of her face to load. He looked away from his phone for a second to turn on the nightlight next to his bed.
He didn't know if Facetiming her was a good idea. Amy looked awful.
Her face was red and blotchy from crying. While she held up the phone so he could see her face, she wasn't looking at the screen. It took him about half a second to see that she was practically naked, save for a tank top. He had never seen her this undressed; except the time he had bathed her, that is.
She must have undressed to have access to the skin of her arms.
The nausea he had experienced earlier returned.
Amy always wore long sleeves, and now he knew why. Even her nightgowns were-long sleeved. He had always thought it was because of her upbringing and her conservative style, but now he wondered if she was conservative at all.
The harsh light around her made it clear she was still in her bathroom.
"Amy," he said.
And she looked back at him. Her eyes were full of tears. Sheldon wasn't good at reading facial expressions or understanding emotions, but he could read her now.
Despair. Loneliness. Hopelessness.
"I'm here," he said, hoping she looked him in his eyes and saw what he didn't find the words for to say.
She nodded slightly and then started to cry anew. Sheldon's heart constricted as he watched her. What a strange sensation to feel; physical pain from seeing her like this.
Amy breathed out slowly, calming herself down. She wasn't looking at him anymore, but staring at the ceiling.
"Why don't you go lie in bed," Sheldon suggested after a minute or so. "You must be exhausted."
He was extremely curious to find out what caused this. They had spoken on the phone today, multiple times. She had been over at his apartment, having some kind of Christmas party. It had looked like they were having a good time. Had something happened that triggered her somehow?
Should he ask her?
Or maybe she would talk herself, if she wanted to.
Or maybe she wouldn't start talking at all, and it had to come from him. She was obviously not keen to talk about this at all. But she had called him, and that was the most important.
Amy got up from the ground, and the camera was tilted to the ceiling while he heard the faucet run. When Amy's face came back into view, the streaks from her cheeks had disappeared and she looked almost normal, if it weren't for her puffy eyes.
Sheldon watched her climb into her bed.
"Are you already in pyjamas?" he asked.
"I can sleep in my underwear," Amy mumbled. He didn't really know why, but he wanted her to put on a nightgown, to cover up her arms so they weren't bare and easily accessible to her scalpel wielding hands.
"Alright," he murmured instead.
Amy looked at him. Her brows were furrowed slightly.
"Sheldon," she exhaled with difficulty. Her eyes filled with tears again.
"Don't," he mumbled. "It's okay. You will be okay."
Amy nodded, but it was obvious to Sheldon that she didn't believe him. She settled in on her side in her bed and looked at him warily.
"I can't tell you how relieved I am that you called me tonight," Sheldon said, needing her to understand just how much he was worried by this. Worried for her.
Amy shrugged.
"I mean it, Amy."
They didn't say anything else. He waited to disconnect the call until he was one hundred percent sure she had fallen asleep.
He didn't get much rest that night.
END OF PART I
Can you relate to Amy a little too much? Talk. Please. You are not alone.
These are the countries most of my readers are from. Is your country not listed? Google Suicide Prevention for more information on how to get in touch with someone who will listen to you, and can get you help.
USA - - 1-800-273-8255
UK - - 111, Option 2 or 116 123
Philippines - - (02) 7989-8727 or 0917 899 8727
Canada - - 1-833-456-4566
Germany - - 0800 111 0 111 or 0800 111 0 222
Brazil - - 141
Netherlands - - 0900 0113
Spain - - 717 003 717
Mexico - - (55) 5259-8121
