side? No. She would probably commit me and call me crazy.
“Neva, I can’t do this unless you are completely honest. If not with me, then yourself.” She sighed. "Tell me a happy memory about your father.”
A happy memory? Is there such a thing? I had spent years holding onto the notion if I remembered my father in any capacity, then eventually it would lead to the reason why I sat here in the first place: every happy memory is tainted by the memory of that night.
I closed my eyes and block everything out, trying to find a happy memory that doesn’t remind me of the night my father was cruelly taken away from me.
“I was six,” I said, opening my eyes. “My mom had taken my brother to an ice hockey game, it was just me and my dad for the day. He took me fishing.” I smiled as the memory seeps through and takes hold.
“The water was so still, and calm. It was the hottest day of summer. Dad had driven us to the lake a couple of miles out of town, it was stunning. Trees bent over the river bank, and the branches could reach into the water. You could see the bottom of the riverbed the water was so clear. It was such a beautiful day.”
I pause, the tears already building in the corners of my eyes.
“Why do you remember this particular memory?” Dr. Marsh asks.
“Because my dad fell into the water.” I laughed.
We had been there for hours without a bite on the line. Then, out of nowhere, my line pulled and the reel quickly spins. I was so shocked that we had actually had a bite, I forgot to pick up my pole and pull the line in. My dad quickly jumped up and pulled on it, struggling to get the catch towards the river bank.
“He was pulling on that damn thing for a good five minutes before the line became tight and he lost his footing. He went in to the water face first. He was soaking wet, knee deep in a river, with a snapped pole. But he had the biggest grin on his face and he laughed so hard.”
“How big was the fish?”
“It was a tire. Someone must have dumped it into the river.” I laughed. “I picked this memory because even though we came home with nothing, we did it smiling.”
I suddenly gasped as I felt wetness on my cheeks. I was crying. Then I realized that for the first time in a long time, I had cried happy tears when I remembered my father.
“This is what we are trying to work to, Neva. The course of treatment we are working through is called CBT, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. The goal is to help you understand your fears and anxieties and help you change the thought processes surrounding them.” She paused, handing me a tissue. “PTSD is an anxiety disorder. We need to identify your anxieties and re-direct your thoughts.”
“Okay,” I whispered, trying to take in everything she said.
“What runs through your mind when you're having an anxiety attack?”
I quickly flicked my gaze to hers; how did she know I had anxiety attacks?
“Your hands; they shake when you are having an attack.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, bowing my head.
“Neva, anxiety attacks are nothing to be ashamed of. It is a sign that your body isn’t coping with stress. Anxiety is quite healthy in everyday life, but it’s considered a disorder when it becomes overwhelming. We need to find the root of your anxiety. What is it that causes you to panic?”
Oh god, everything. The truth was, I had no idea why I get so anxious. I just thought since I had PTSD, the attacks are just what happens, but they seemed to have gotten worse since Jack's attack.
“I don’t know. Truthfully, I thought it was just what happens when you have PTSD. I just lived with it, I suppose.”
“What do you think will happen if you don’t get the attack under control?”
“I sometimes think that if I can’t control it, I may suffocate
“Neva, I can’t do this unless you are completely honest. If not with me, then yourself.” She sighed. "Tell me a happy memory about your father.”
A happy memory? Is there such a thing? I had spent years holding onto the notion if I remembered my father in any capacity, then eventually it would lead to the reason why I sat here in the first place: every happy memory is tainted by the memory of that night.
I closed my eyes and block everything out, trying to find a happy memory that doesn’t remind me of the night my father was cruelly taken away from me.
“I was six,” I said, opening my eyes. “My mom had taken my brother to an ice hockey game, it was just me and my dad for the day. He took me fishing.” I smiled as the memory seeps through and takes hold.
“The water was so still, and calm. It was the hottest day of summer. Dad had driven us to the lake a couple of miles out of town, it was stunning. Trees bent over the river bank, and the branches could reach into the water. You could see the bottom of the riverbed the water was so clear. It was such a beautiful day.”
I pause, the tears already building in the corners of my eyes.
“Why do you remember this particular memory?” Dr. Marsh asks.
“Because my dad fell into the water.” I laughed.
We had been there for hours without a bite on the line. Then, out of nowhere, my line pulled and the reel quickly spins. I was so shocked that we had actually had a bite, I forgot to pick up my pole and pull the line in. My dad quickly jumped up and pulled on it, struggling to get the catch towards the river bank.
“He was pulling on that damn thing for a good five minutes before the line became tight and he lost his footing. He went in to the water face first. He was soaking wet, knee deep in a river, with a snapped pole. But he had the biggest grin on his face and he laughed so hard.”
“How big was the fish?”
“It was a tire. Someone must have dumped it into the river.” I laughed. “I picked this memory because even though we came home with nothing, we did it smiling.”
I suddenly gasped as I felt wetness on my cheeks. I was crying. Then I realized that for the first time in a long time, I had cried happy tears when I remembered my father.
“This is what we are trying to work to, Neva. The course of treatment we are working through is called CBT, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. The goal is to help you understand your fears and anxieties and help you change the thought processes surrounding them.” She paused, handing me a tissue. “PTSD is an anxiety disorder. We need to identify your anxieties and re-direct your thoughts.”
“Okay,” I whispered, trying to take in everything she said.
“What runs through your mind when you're having an anxiety attack?”
I quickly flicked my gaze to hers; how did she know I had anxiety attacks?
“Your hands; they shake when you are having an attack.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, bowing my head.
“Neva, anxiety attacks are nothing to be ashamed of. It is a sign that your body isn’t coping with stress. Anxiety is quite healthy in everyday life, but it’s considered a disorder when it becomes overwhelming. We need to find the root of your anxiety. What is it that causes you to panic?”
Oh god, everything. The truth was, I had no idea why I get so anxious. I just thought since I had PTSD, the attacks are just what happens, but they seemed to have gotten worse since Jack's attack.
“I don’t know. Truthfully, I thought it was just what happens when you have PTSD. I just lived with it, I suppose.”
“What do you think will happen if you don’t get the attack under control?”
“I sometimes think that if I can’t control it, I may suffocate
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