Released (Caged #3)(39)

“Please?” I said. “The most wonderful woman in the world is pregnant. I’m a f*cked-up junkie who can’t even think about her being that way without having a panic attack, and I don’t even know what the f*ck a panic attack is. I need help. Please.”

Her lips tightened at the corners as she looked at me for a long moment.

“All right,” she said through her tight lips. “Three sessions. Let’s see how it works. If there is anything remotely awkward or unprofessional, you will transfer to another therapist. In the meantime, I will have Dr. Baynor locate one who fits your needs and is taking new patients, just in case.”

“Works for me,” I said.

“Then let’s begin.”

Shit. Now that she had agreed, I had no idea what to do. I kept my eyes on her as I walked over to the couch and timidly sat on the edge. I reached up and scratched the back of my head while I struggled to think of something to say. I finally just went with blunt.

“When I was in high school, my girlfriend died because of a miscarriage.”

I was never one to open up, but I knew I had to start somewhere.





Chapter 11—Ask the Question


It took a while—a long while—but I got it all out.

I only puked once.

Erin actually rescheduled the rest of her afternoon to let me stay there and go on for as long as I needed. After a fair amount of shaking and generally freaking out, I calmed myself down enough to keep her from insisting on hospitalization. With a bottle of water and a fresh trashcan at my feet, I sat on the couch and tried to keep my breathing steady.

“Tell me what’s happening in your head right now,” Erin said softly.

My insides were so torn up, I didn’t know what I was thinking or feeling. The desire to push the memories away was great, but I knew if I did that, I wasn’t going to get anywhere with this shit. Being numb was a lot more comfortable—just like Pink Floyd said.

“I just…I…I don’t know.”

“Are you still remembering that day?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because…because it hurts too much.”

“It’s terrifying to see someone you love like that,” Erin said. “You realize this is a perfectly normal reaction to what happened, don’t you?”

“Ten years later?” I let out a single sharp guffaw.

“You’ve never dealt with it,” she said. “It might as well have happened yesterday.”

My chest rose and fell as I lost control of my breathing.

“Count with me,” Erin said.

“What?”

“Count with me,” she repeated. “Out loud. When we say the numbers, I want you to think about taking a pencil and writing the number down on a blue piece of paper each time. See it in your head as we go. Got it?”

“Um…okay.”

Not knowing what else to do when confronted with such a ridiculous request, I followed her lead. We counted slowly in unison until we reached fifty.

“Better?” she asked.

“A little,” I admitted.

“That’s your quick and easy way to get yourself under control,” she said. “Visualize the numbers as you count. Your symptoms seem to increase as your mind fixates on the horror of the memory. Thinking of something mundane and making yourself focus on it can snap your mind out of that mode.”

I nodded, not really sure if I believed her or not, but I couldn’t deny that I had calmed down. Maybe she was right. Shit, maybe they all were.

“So, was Baynor right?” I asked.

“Right about what?” Erin scratched on a legal pad with a pen.

“He said I had PTSD.”

“I think that is quite obvious, Liam.”

“Well, what the f*ck does that mean?”

“It means,” she said, “that you have suffered through a very intense and tragic event. When memories of that event surface now, your adrenaline system overreacts and makes you extremely sensitive to the memories that frighten you.”

“I didn’t graduate high school, you know.” I raised an eyebrow at her.

“You aren’t stupid, Liam,” Erin said. “You are also clearly educated even if you don’t have a degree. Don’t bullshit me.”

I glanced away from her and stared out the window at the little tree.

“PTSD explains why you have extreme reactions to emotions,” she said. “Anything that causes you to remember what happened almost ten years ago sets off a set of responses in your brain—responses you haven’t been able to control. Do you have nightmares?”

I looked back at her.

“Not really.”

“Did you use to?”

“Before getting doped up, yeah.”

“How did using heroin help?”

“It made me forget,” I said with a shrug. “Made me numb. It was better than thinking about it.”

“And what did you do after you stopped using?”

“I made myself not think about it.” I shrugged. “It took a bit of effort, especially in the beginning, but I just…didn’t. As long as I was punching something, I didn’t have to think about it.”