Thanksgiving was good. I was almost surprised at how good it was.
Sarah overcooked the turkey and took way too many pictures of us all crowded on the couch. Mark told the same embarrassing high school stories, and we all pretended we’d never heard them before. Huxley fell asleep on my thigh halfway through a movie, and I carried him up to his room after it ended because I was too sucked into the award-worthy plot of Shrek, trying to taste a little bit of childhood I missed out on. It all felt like breathing without bricks on my chest for once. I kept waiting for the panic to come, but it didn’t. It was still there, sure; grief doesn’t take off for holidays, but it mostly kept its distance, barely even being noticed.
Still, the minute the plane wheels hit Texas ground, and Simone turned to me, smiling, telling me we werehome, my chest loosened even more. I was ready to be back. I missed this place, missed Lani, I missed a very special, tall, handsome, kind boy who got back yesterday and was already sending me pictures of him sitting at our table in the library with two coffees—one he won’t drink but still got because he can’t go to the coffee shop on campus without ordering for me too now. Just knowing he’s in the same zip code again makes falling back intothe flow of college and boring classes easier in my head.
Today’s a busy day. The first week back after breaks is always rough. Going from being lazy, lying in bed all day, to having to be responsible with time again sucks. I have classes and then therapy and a small break before recovery group tonight. A lot, I know, but I think it’ll be alright.
* * *
“Let’s try something new,” Dr. Nora says as I settle into the huge chair in her office that is almost the size of my dorm room bed.
“Did you ever do bilateral with Dr. Raina?” she asks.
“Tapping?” I ask. “The light bar thing?”
“Mm-hm. Same idea,” she says. “We’ll go slow with it today. You get to be the driver.”
I roll my eyes because I’m me. “I hate being the driver.”
“That’s why we practice,” she says, smiling gently.
She shows me how she wants me to tap on my shoulders with my fingers, left-right-left-right.
“Choose a location you feel comfortable in. A sensory location. It doesn’t need to be drastic or over the top. Just something basic that will help you relax and easily come back to it.”
“The dorm showers,” I reply without having to think about it. “They’re tiny and loud. I like that you can’t hear anything else when you’re inside. And it always smells like citrus shampoo.”
“Good,” she says. “Let your nervous system believe you’re there. We’ll bounce back there when we need to. We’ll visit the hard thing, then come back to the shower. We’re just widening what your body can hold. You stop me at any second.”
“Okay,” I say, not really ready.
We do the hand taps. She has me focus on the chair beneath my thighs, the air surrounding me, and the distant sounds of a lawn mower outside her office. Then we begin moving into a memory—of before.
What comes first is the soft sound of the blinds hitting the window from the wind blowing up out of the window AC unit. Next is a smell—stale smoke and mildew. Then this overwhelming sense of fear, and also a metallic blood taste, like I had bitten down on my cheek.
“Say what you notice, like captions,” she says. “Just the small things.”
“Dining room,” I reply aloud. “The green tile that always looks dirty. Sunlight through the window. There’s loud voices in the room. Mom’s laughter, but not the happy kind—her angry, fed-up type. There’s clattering of dishes in the sink…”
“How does your body feel during this memory?”
“I don’t feel anything,” I say automatically.
“Try again,” she replies softly, just giving direction, not demanding. “First, where do you feel it in your body?”
“Chest,” I quickly reply. “My chest feels tight. My legs…they want to run away. I’m…I’m small. And I’m…on the floor.”
“Good,” she says. “Okay, now go back to the shower. Feel the hot water pouring down onto your shoulders. Smell the citrus. Take deep breaths of the steam. Feel your feet pressing against the tile. You’re back here.”
I tap back to myself, and everything returns.
“Okay,” she says. “Little steps. You’re doing great.”
“Don’t patronize me,” I mutter. My anger always likes to arrive right before my tears. We go again. Left-right-left-right. The blinds ping again. The air feels heavy. I see spilled cereal on the floor. There’s a sound I hate—screaming. Then a crash. My mother’s voice cuts throughthe room. My dad’s is lower, meaner. And then—
Camilla’s hand is on my shoulder, pushing me behind her legs.
She’s ten, maybe eleven. I’m little. I must be like five or so in this memory. She’s in front of me, protecting me.
