Ten Tiny Breaths (Ten Tiny Breaths #1)(76)

“Good. Now, Kacey, we need to find you a coping method that works for you. Kick boxing is not it. It helps you channel your rage, yes. But let’s find a way to permanently extinguish that rage. I want you to brainstorm with me. What do you think are healthy coping mechanisms?”

“If I knew, I’d be doing them, wouldn’t I?”

I get an eye roll. An eye roll from a professional. “Come on now, you’re a smart girl. Think back to all the things you’ve heard. What other people have suggested. I’ll get you started. Talking to others about the trauma is one.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes at him.

Dr. Stayner waves his hands dismissively. “I know, I know. Believe me, you’ve made yourself clear. But talking about your pain and sharing it with others is one of the most powerful ways to cope. It helps you release the hurt, not bottle it up until you explode. Other ways to cope include painting, and reading, setting goals, journaling about your feelings.”

Hmmm. I could do journaling. It’s still a private activity.

“Yoga’s fantastic too. It helps clear your mind, it makes you focus on your breathing.”

Breathing. “Ten tiny breaths,” I murmur more to myself, feeling my lips curl with the irony.

“What’s that?” Dr. Stayner leans forward, pushing his bifocals up with one finger.

I shake my head. “No, nothing. Something my mother used to say. Take ten tiny breaths.”

“When did she say that?”

“Whenever I was sad or upset or nervous.”

Dr. Stayner’s fingers rub his chin. “I see, and did she say anything else? Do you remember?”

I smirk. Of course I remember. It’s firmly emblazoned in my head. “She would say, ‘Just breathe, Kacey. Ten tiny breaths. Seize them. Feel them. Love them.’”

There’s a long pause. “And what do you think she meant by that?”

I frown irritably. “She was telling me to breathe.”

“Hmmm.” He rolls a pen over the surface of his desk as if in deep thought. “And how will tiny breaths help? Why tiny? Why not deep breaths?”

I slap my hands on his desk. “That’s what I always asked. Now you see.”

But he doesn’t see. By the tiny crook of his lips, he sees something different. Something that I don’t see. “Do you think it matters if they’re tiny or deep?”

I scowl. I don’t like these kinds of games. “What do you think she meant by it?”

“What do you think she meant by it?”

I want to punch Dr. Stayner in the mouth again. I really, really want to punch him again.

***

Just breathe, Kacey. Ten tiny breaths. Seize them. Feel them. Love them. I play these words over and over in my head like I have a thousand times before to no avail, as I lie awake in my cell that’s not actually a cell. It’s a nice small room with a private bath and sunny yellow walls, but I feel confined all the same.

Dr. Stayner knew what my mom meant right away. I could tell by that snotty smirk on his face. I guess you have to be super smart. Dr. Stayner is obviously super smart. I, obviously, am not.

I inhale deeply, jogging my memory of the conversation. What did he say, again? Breathing can be a coping mechanism. And then he questioned the tiny breaths. But he set up me. He already had the answer to it. And the answer is …

One … two… three … I count to ten, hoping profound wisdom will land on my head. It doesn’t.

Do you think it matters if they’re tiny or deep? he asked. Well, if they’re not tiny breaths and they’re not deep breaths, then they’re just … breaths. Then you’re just breathing for the sake of … breathing.

… Seize them. Feel them. Love them …

I bolt up straight, a weird calming sensation flowing through my body as understanding dawns on me.

It’s so simple. God, it’s so f**king simple.

Stage Eight ~ Recovery

Chapter Twenty-One

Six weeks later. Group therapy.

One … Two … Three … Four… Five… Six … Seven … Eight… Nine … Ten.

I try not to fidget with my fingers as they sit folded in my lap. “My name is Kacey Cleary. Four years ago, my car was hit by a drunk driver. My mother and father, my best friend, and my boyfriend were all killed. I had to sit in the car, holding my dead boyfriend’s hand, listening to my mother take her last breath, until the paramedics could free me.” I pause to swallow. One … two… three … I take deep breaths this time. Long, deep breaths. They’re not tiny. They’re huge. They’re monumental.

“I used alcohol and drugs to drown out the pain at first. Then I moved on to violence and sex. But now,” I look directly at Dr. Stayner, “I just appreciate the fact that I can hug my sister, and laugh with my friends, and walk, and run. That I am alive. That I can breathe.”

I’m above water.

And this time I’m staying where I belong.

***

A loud rush of clapping greets me at Penny’s as I turn the corner to find everyone waiting for me. Nate’s the first to greet me, stooping down and lifting me up into an enormous bear hug. I don’t even flinch with the contact. I’ve learned to appreciate it fully again.

“I always knew you were batshit crazy.” Ben hollers from somewhere. I whirl around in time for him to scoop me up and hold me tight to his body. “And tough as nails, for surviving all of that,” he adds softly in my ear. “I would have cried like a five year old girl. You okay?”