because I can’t breathe. It’s the thought of being trapped and suffocated in my own body that scares me the most.”
“Do you think this is because it happened to your father?” she asked, raising her right brow.
“Maybe. I don’t see any other explanation for it.”
“Then we’re making progress.”
After leaving Dr. Marsh’s office, I felt lighter. It’s as if someone had taken a heavy weight from my shoulders. I hadn’t felt this light in years, but I knew the heady high I'm on would fade. It always does. No matter how good something was, it always becomes tainted. Everything I touched became broken, shattered, and useless.
Dr. Marsh told me I needed to distract my mind before I can move forward, and change the way I process things. A distraction. Where did I even begin? I hadn’t touched my guitar in over four weeks. I just couldn’t muster the strength to go back to it again. My guitar served as an open wound, but the lyrics that pour out of me soothed my soul. My guitar was my downfall, whereas the lyrics that dance with them were my distraction. It’s a double-edged sword.
As I let myself into the front door of my mom’s house, I tried to think of something that could distract me from my dark thoughts. Even just trying to find a distraction isn’t distracting me from the fears and anxieties in my mind. My hands start to shake again. Shit.
“Sweetie, is that you?” I heard my mom call from somewhere in the house.
Closing my eyes, I tried to calm my breathing, hoping that the pounding in my eyes from my raging heart would soon slow. Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes.
“Yeah, it’s me!” I shouted, trying to hold back the shakiness in my voice.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
Sighing, I pulled on my big girl panties and made my way into the kitchen. Mom sat at the table with her back to me, reading an interior design magazine. Design sketches and fabric swatches were laid out across the table. It looked like Ikea vomited onto my mom’s dining table.
I chuckled and walked into the kitchen and take a seat beside her. She was shuffling between some picture she found in the magazine and some of the swatches laid out in front of her.
My mom was an interior designer. After my dad died, she quit her job in a fit of depression. Eventually, we had to sell the house and buy a smaller place a couple of miles away. Thankfully, with the spare money from the sale, Mom started her own interior design business. Now, she designs interiors for some pretty high end clients.
“Duck egg blue or powder blue?” she asked me, her eyes never leaving the two swatches in front of her.
“What’s the difference?”
“To be honest, I have been looking at them for so long, I don’t even know.” She laughed.
Pulling her glasses from the bridge of her nose, she slid them onto her head. Rubbing her temples, she turned to me.
“How was your session?” she asked, the sadness in her eyes pretty evident.
She's known for a long time I hadn’t been dealing well with my father’s death. When Logan first alerted my mom to the nightmares and my unyielding fear of getting in a car, she sprang into action and took me straight to a doctor. I was diagnosed with Delayed Onset PTSD and referred to a therapist. But, when you are ten years old, it’s not easy discussing the horrific nature of your own father’s death.
“Good. We talked about Dad today,” I whispered. “We talked about the fishing trip.”
“I remember that day. Your father came home absolutely drenched, you guys never did tell us why he had gotten so wet.” She smiled.
“He fell into the water trying to pull in my line.” I laughed.
“He was always so full of life,” she whispered, and I held my breath. It’s hard for her to talk about him; I may have lost my father but she lost the man she loved. “You know, he loved being a mechanic and getting his hands dirty. But he also wanted to be a singer. He had such an amazing voice, and the
“Do you think this is because it happened to your father?” she asked, raising her right brow.
“Maybe. I don’t see any other explanation for it.”
“Then we’re making progress.”
After leaving Dr. Marsh’s office, I felt lighter. It’s as if someone had taken a heavy weight from my shoulders. I hadn’t felt this light in years, but I knew the heady high I'm on would fade. It always does. No matter how good something was, it always becomes tainted. Everything I touched became broken, shattered, and useless.
Dr. Marsh told me I needed to distract my mind before I can move forward, and change the way I process things. A distraction. Where did I even begin? I hadn’t touched my guitar in over four weeks. I just couldn’t muster the strength to go back to it again. My guitar served as an open wound, but the lyrics that pour out of me soothed my soul. My guitar was my downfall, whereas the lyrics that dance with them were my distraction. It’s a double-edged sword.
As I let myself into the front door of my mom’s house, I tried to think of something that could distract me from my dark thoughts. Even just trying to find a distraction isn’t distracting me from the fears and anxieties in my mind. My hands start to shake again. Shit.
“Sweetie, is that you?” I heard my mom call from somewhere in the house.
Closing my eyes, I tried to calm my breathing, hoping that the pounding in my eyes from my raging heart would soon slow. Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes.
“Yeah, it’s me!” I shouted, trying to hold back the shakiness in my voice.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
Sighing, I pulled on my big girl panties and made my way into the kitchen. Mom sat at the table with her back to me, reading an interior design magazine. Design sketches and fabric swatches were laid out across the table. It looked like Ikea vomited onto my mom’s dining table.
I chuckled and walked into the kitchen and take a seat beside her. She was shuffling between some picture she found in the magazine and some of the swatches laid out in front of her.
My mom was an interior designer. After my dad died, she quit her job in a fit of depression. Eventually, we had to sell the house and buy a smaller place a couple of miles away. Thankfully, with the spare money from the sale, Mom started her own interior design business. Now, she designs interiors for some pretty high end clients.
“Duck egg blue or powder blue?” she asked me, her eyes never leaving the two swatches in front of her.
“What’s the difference?”
“To be honest, I have been looking at them for so long, I don’t even know.” She laughed.
Pulling her glasses from the bridge of her nose, she slid them onto her head. Rubbing her temples, she turned to me.
“How was your session?” she asked, the sadness in her eyes pretty evident.
She's known for a long time I hadn’t been dealing well with my father’s death. When Logan first alerted my mom to the nightmares and my unyielding fear of getting in a car, she sprang into action and took me straight to a doctor. I was diagnosed with Delayed Onset PTSD and referred to a therapist. But, when you are ten years old, it’s not easy discussing the horrific nature of your own father’s death.
“Good. We talked about Dad today,” I whispered. “We talked about the fishing trip.”
“I remember that day. Your father came home absolutely drenched, you guys never did tell us why he had gotten so wet.” She smiled.
“He fell into the water trying to pull in my line.” I laughed.
“He was always so full of life,” she whispered, and I held my breath. It’s hard for her to talk about him; I may have lost my father but she lost the man she loved. “You know, he loved being a mechanic and getting his hands dirty. But he also wanted to be a singer. He had such an amazing voice, and the
Similar Books
