The offer is a godsend.
“Y-yeah,” I croak. “Ok.”
She snags one of the weighted pillows off the other recliner and hands it to me. Hugging it to my chest, I take my first full breath in hours.
“You want the sound machine?”
I nod.
“You got it. I’ll bring some snacks in case you get hungry.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze before padding out of the room into her supply closet. The agony begins to subside as the emergency Valium works through my system. My eyelids weigh ten tons, my heart rate slowing…
But the tears still won’t stop.
“Come back to me, Win,” I whisper as I drift off. “I don’t know how to live without you anymore…”
38
Win
The bow arches across the strings like a fluid extension of my arm, singing a desperate melody straight into the mic I’ve set up to record. Note after note, the crescendo beckons me higher—
“You get off on pain, don’t you, sad boy?”
My hand slips, V releasing an awful screech of protest.
“Fuck!”
Tossing the bow at the daybed against the window, it bounces once before tumbling to the floor. I sink down with it, setting my precious violin on the carpet beside me as I dig my knuckles into my eye sockets.
PTSD. That’s what they diagnosed me with alongside a slew of other things like general anxiety disorder and manic depression. I didn’t realize the extent of my triggers until I started recovery.
The list is endless.
All it takes is a similar face in a crowd. Wet dirt under my shoes. An accidental burn while cooking. The scent of post-storm musk.
After experiencing such severe levels of trauma, my brain has physically changed. I lose touch with the present, instantly thrown back to the worst moments of my life.
But having rational explanations only goes so far. I haven’t been this unstable since right before I was admitted. The urge to use or drink howls inside my skull at all hours. I can’t sleep without waking in a cold sweat, screaming and clawing at non-existent threats. Even distracting myself with violin covers isn’t enough.
I’m. Losing. My. Mind.
More often than I'd like, I find myself on the floor like I am now, trembling head to toe, wishing my sunshine was here with his arms wrapped around me and his soothing voice promising me it’ll pass. That I’ll get through this. That I’m safe.
But I can’t burden him. Not after finally getting him back.
So I weather the storm the way I always have: alone.
He’s probably fed up with me already. I’ve been avoidant. I’m sure it isn’t helping his insecurities about dating me again, but if he sees me like this, he’ll want to know what’s wrong and I’m too fucking scared to voice it. I haven’t told a soul. They tried to pry it out of me at Crestview but every time I got close, I broke.
Because saying it out loud makes it real. It means the nightmares weren’t only in my mind.
A knock echoes through the quiet guest house.
I’m not in the mood for Mom to tiptoe around me, anxiously attempting to convince me to confide in her. The idea of her knowing the truth makes me nauseous.
It would destroy her.
And me.
