Shattered Dreams (Boys of Bellerose, #3)(7)
“Yes,” I admitted, “but only because I was bored.”
“How did you feel while you were creating music, Billie?”
Alive. “Um, okay I guess?”
She nodded, her expression giving none of her thoughts away, as usual. “Is okay the level you judge much of your existence on? Just being okay is what you aim for?”
Damn. That one stung. But she wasn’t wrong. “Yeah, I guess life hasn’t really been one to give me tequila to go with the limes. There’s no turning most of my shitty life around, and… yeah, being okay means I’m not dying in an alley somewhere.”
Another nod. Another warm expression and no judgment. “Do you ever have goals or dreams? Do you make plans to turn okay into more? To raise that level and keep it raised?”
A sad, hard bark of laughter escaped me. “Goals and dreams are for a different life. A different fucking person. I exist. There’s nothing else, and I won’t waste my time and energy hoping for more.”
Her kind smile dimmed just a fraction, the first negative reaction she’d shot my way in many minutes. “I don’t think that’s true, Billie. From what you’ve told me, and the background I know, you have a lot of reasons to be hopeful. I know it’s scary to dream for a better future, but it’s also healthy. It forces you to change circumstances, to refuse to accept bad treatment, and to create a life that’s more than just okay.”
Scary? Was she fucking kidding? It was absolutely terrifying, and it felt like one more shattered dream and I’d be broken beyond repair. Jace fucking Adams seemed to think I already was.
“Thanks, doc,” I drawled, forcing the mood to shift with my attitude. “I’ll take that into account when I'm being almost murdered for the twentieth time in a year. Merry fucking Christmas to me.”
“I’m glad you brought up the attempted murders,” she said in one of her rapid shifts. “As we’ve discussed, life-or-death situations are very triggering when you’ve suffered a previous loss. It brings up the old trauma. With that in mind, I believe it’s time for us to discuss some techniques that might help you deal with flashbacks.”
Dr. Candace had already attempted to impart these techniques during our first couple of sessions, but I’d been less than receptive, especially on the eve of the last fight I’d had with Jace. But the truth was that “seizure” on the day of the attack wasn’t my only flashback. There had been moments since the explosion during the day and night when I found myself in this space between the past and the present, unable to truly differentiate which I was in. It was affecting me too greatly to keep turning down the help. Even if that help was being somewhat forced on me.
“Okay,” I said with a nod. “I need to let the past go because it’s breaking me.”
She leaned forward, her expression so open and kind that I alternated between wanting to cry and punch her in the face. This shit hurt, and while it wasn’t her fault, she was here now, picking at the wounds. Or was she suturing them? Both hurt, but one would eventually allow me to heal.
Either way, I was here now, and I’d listen.
“You are stronger than you think, Billie,” she told me, and fuck if there wasn’t a tiny ring of truth in her tone. As if she truly believed what she was saying. “Look back at what you’ve overcome. Look at where you’ve been and where you are now. Being here in therapy, for starters, is a great show of strength. It might have been forced on you, but you still participate with me. I’ve had a lot of therapy sessions with people who were mandated to be here, and let me tell you, it’s generally screaming, trashing my office, or silence that cannot be broken. You. Are. Strong.”
And fuck. There she went, making me want to cry again.
“And you will let the past go, as soon as you deal with the trauma.”
She was saying exactly what we both knew. I’d suppressed the pain and loss for so many years, that it had built up too big to be contained any longer. My brain wouldn’t allow it.
Dr Candace’s next smile was broad, as she kept her focus firmly on me. “Therapy is going to help you let go of your past and move forward to a stronger, more fulfilled future, but in the meantime, here are my suggestions for dealing with the current flashbacks and trauma episodes.”
I found myself leaning forward, desperate to hear her next words.
“Start with learning to recognize the prequel to an attack so you know when it’s about to happen. When you feel it coming on, I want you to take five deep breaths and count backwards with each one. Slow, sure—keep yourself focused on counting and breathing.”
She continued on, listing out multiple steps that had me grounding myself in the present by finding familiar objects and focusing on them, repeating out loud that this is not real, this is not my life now, seeking out a stable person that I trusted to help me through, and a few others.
“It sounds simple, but it’s more difficult to implement when you are lost in the trauma,” she warned me.
What else was new? Nothing in my life was ever simple, and I had the sense that this might be harder than even my normal.
Luckily, I was well used to dealing with difficult shit. It was the story of my life, after all.
four
BILLIE