Since there are still some other campers using the facilities for showering and getting ready for bed, we don’t want to spend too much time up at the bathhouses. Having finished up before her, I sit on the nearby rock wall and patiently wait for her to emerge from the women’s side. When she doesn’t make an immediate appearance, I start to worry a little that perhaps theadrenaline of what she’d just allowed has worn off, and maybe her insecurities are starting to creep back in.
Hell, my own are bubbling up from the murky depths of my own soul. What on earth gives me the right to be chasing such things—love and adoration, not just of the carnal variety—when I’ve made promises—no,taken vows—to always cherish another… in sickness and in health.
My heart stutters in my chest, the heavy weight of grief and shame settles on my shoulders, sending a tinge of pain right to that knot between my shoulder blades—that ever-present ache that constantly flares up at the worst possible time, whenever I’m feeling low. I roll my shoulders, hoping to alleviate that wrenching sensation, but the more I sit here and stew in my own guilt, the more it flares.
Suddenly, a soft touch startles me out of my shitty headspace. “Are you okay?” Lauren asks, dipping her head to look me in the eye as her hand rubs soothing circles on the space that had just been aching.
I nod. “I’m okay,” I reply, sighing.
She’s unconvinced, however. Her narrowed gaze is a dead giveaway. “You’re full of shit.” She sits down next to me, the heel of her palm kneading into the knot harder.
I don’t want to make this about me; I really don’t. She’s had this giant breakthrough tonight, and my burdens shouldn’t take precedence. I never want to be an anchor to Lauren, weighing her down.
“You know,” she hums thoughtfully, “I’ve been going to quite a few of your PT appointments now, and while I’m not a medical professional by any stretch of the imagination, Idonotice that the days you tell Dr. Bruckheimer your pain level is higher are the ones immediately following when you’ve brought up the topic of your ongoing stressors regarding your lack of ability to carefor Aaron…”
She rubs the knot harder, but it feels good. She works at it with just enough force to help loosen the tightness, but it’s not too much. Her tender touch is so vastly dissimilar to that of Torture Thumbs Bruckheimer, I find myself leaning back into it as I contemplate what she’s just said.
She continues, leaning in and resting her chin on my shoulder. “Is there any chance that the pain could be a physical manifestation of your mental suffering?”
Fuck, could that be what’s been going on all this time? The burden I bear over Aaron’s condition and my being cut out of his life… has that taken an actual toll on my own body? Is that why no amount of doctor’s appointments and new therapies I’ve tried have ever come close to touching the pain, when it’s there?
“Maybe,” I admit, sitting up straighter. “It’s definitely a possibility.”
“I have someone whom I’ve trusted with my mental health for years now,” she suggests. “I was a little skeptical at first because I’d wanted to be connected with a female therapist, but… I don’t know, there’s just something about the guy I’ve been seeing through this tele-therapy app I use—he’s amazing. Would therapy be something you’d want to look into?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to be pumped full of anti-depressants or whatever. Nothing against anyone who uses them and finds help with them, but I heard they can kind of zone you out—”
“I’m not on any medications,” she notes, interrupting my train of thought. “Brooks doesn’t prescribe anything. He’s just there to talk to, and trust me, he is anamazinglistener. That’s what took me so long in the bathroom, by the way. I texted him to let him know that I had a giant breakthrough tonight, and that I’m ecstatic to tell him about everything that’s gone on today at our next session.”
She beams at me, squashing all the doubt I had before that the shock had worn off, and that she suddenly had regrets. Then, she goes on, seemingly excited to gloat about her amazing therapist. “He gets a little busier this time of year—the summer—because he runs a grief camp for kiddos or something, but the next time I meet with him, I could totally check in and see if he could take on another patient, now that camp season has ended. If not, at the very least, he might know of someone who could…”
I take a minute to mull that over. I’ve never been one to want to seek out therapy or anything like that because—well, I don’t know—before the accident, I neverhadto. My life felt like this epic fever dream of all these amazing things: I was married to my soulmate, we had this fantastic little family, everything was going so fuckin’ good… until I had this perfunctory failure of judgement that cost me just about all of that, save for still having Cam. Which, honestly, thank fuck I still have him, because without that kid, I’d be completely hopeless.
Now? I never even considered seeking out therapy because of all the goddamn hoops I have to jump through trying to communicate. I don’t care what they say—that language should never be a barrier to receiving medical or mental health treatment—it fuckin’ is. The stone-cold (shitty as hell) truth of it is, access is limited when the world is designed with little consideration for those who are differently abled.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” Lauren adds, breaking through my mental swirl of grievances. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. Just, I don’t know, keep it in mind.” She pecks my cheek with a kiss.
I offer her a soft grin back. “Okay. I’ll think about it. You seem quite fond of him, this B-R-O-O-K-S.”
She titters. “Well, besides Marcus and my parents, he’s the only one I’ve ever trusted all my trauma with. Now, you’rein my little circle of trust too,” she hums, sifting her fingers through my hair. “Is it too gushy of me to say ‘I love you’ again?”
I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure I’ll never get sick of hearing you say those three words.” I hold my hand up, signing, “I love you.”
She presses her matching hand up to mine, kissing me on the lips this time. “This has been an amazing weekend,” she hums on my lips. “I wish it didn’t have to end.”
By the time we make our way back to the campsite and quietly slip back into my tent, I notice my phone lit up with an incoming text to our “Poop Deck Partners” group chat. For the record,Gannettnamed it.
Cap
Not sure if either of you mateys have had your eyes on the weather at all, but the day after tomorrow looks like we’re due to get some bad weather. Tropical storm or some bullshit down South is supposed to make its way up here. Wanted to give you both a heads up that we might not be going out Tuesday morning.
Marcus
Yarrgh, looks like these pirates will be landlubbers for the day, then? No pillaging the lobster pots, I presume?
Cap
Nah. Too risky. Can’t afford to have the Coast Guard out saving our asses.
