Page 28 of Lucky 14

Day 1

In true Holli style, I can’t have a pleasant dream, hallucination, or reality. While I’m running, I start vomiting. I slow until I can get my stomach to stop clenching and then keep going up and over rocks and around trees. I’m not sure where I am or how far I’ve gone, but when my lungs feel like they’re full of razors, I collapse in a group of bushes.

I don’t know how long I lay there, heaving for breath and half listening for people around me. Were there people who saw me lose my mind and run off? And when did this happen? After a session?

My mind feels foggy. I do remember…someone in my apartment. We were fighting. Was that a dream or real?

These trees can’t be real. We don’t have trees like this in Oklahoma.

Fuck. I hope I didn’t puke on anyone’s gnome decor outside. They’d for sure call the cops on me.

Maybe I want them to call the cops on me. Anything to make this stop.

It takes me a while to focus on more than just the few feet directly in front of my eyes. And even longer to realize if the birds are singing, then it’s safe. Or at least, that’s what they say. Bird song is used in therapy to help the nervous system calm down.

Only, these are birds I don’t recognize. They sound foreign and strange. And do birds consider humans unsafe? Would they stop singing if someone walked by? Why the hell didn’t I research this?

My heart is racing again, and I take deep, manual breaths that taste like blood. I always told myself I’d pick it back up soon, but I never did.

Tears prick at my eyes as I focus around me. I’m in what looks like a hilly, rocky area dotted with trees. The trees are huge, stretching so far up I have to crane my neck. I squint. There are all kinds of curving branches covered in leaves. Some trees have giant, thin roots above the ground, making tangled cages over rocks.

When I look back down, I notice everything is covered in moss. Deep green moss, creeping up the trunks and lying over rocks like blankets. It’s then that I realize the ground is slightly wet and muddy.

I stare at the mud. Stare at the moss mixed into the dirt like it’ll give me the answers. Like it’ll diagnose me, send a script to my closest pharmacy, then tell me to fuck off.

My ear hurts. It throbs alongside my back. Which feels heavy.

Heavy from the backpack.

Reluctantly, I shrug it off, then stare as the heavy pack drops in the mud in front of me with a squelch.

No. No, no, no. It’s real. The backpack is real.

My eyes burn, and then tears drop down my cheeks. It can’t be real. Ripping the bag open, I shuffle around inside. There’s a jacket and fuck, bottled water. I rip the cap off and chug it, only forcing myself to slow after a few deep swallows.

The water is real, too. Cool and wet and…fucking too real to be fake.

Psychosis. It has a genetic component, but can also be brought on by stress or substance abuse. Do I have a family history of this? I mean, not that I know of, but it’s not like my family is super into mental health things.

Staring at the backpack, I will it to go away. For a flash of reality to hit me. Something. Anything.

I start digging in the bag again, looking for anything familiar. In the bag are also what look like tinfoil, a metal cup, and…protein bars? There’s an odd-looking stick of rock, maybe? And down at the bottom there’s a watch.

I stare at all of the items. What does all this mean?

My ear fucking hurts, and I reach up to feel. There’s something hard and plastic there. My gut clenches as I realize I’ve been tagged just like everyone else.

For a minute, all I can do is stare at the backpack. No. No, I can’t have a tag in my ear. How do I get it out? I search the backpack for a mirror. Instead, all I find are men’s clothes that are far too big for me.

A hysterical bubble rises in my chest. It feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my body, filling me with pressure. Trying to keep the tears down, I check the time. With psychosis, perception of time can be skewed, but it says 18:45. I realize it’s military time, so I do the math. Six forty-five in the evening.

I struggle to remember any coping mechanism to stop the overwhelming fear and fatigue that feels like they’re simultaneously trying to explode out of my chest while imploding it at the same time. But what works when it feels like you’re about to die? Deep breaths?

I let out a small, delirious laugh.

What if I am actually about to die? What if this isn’t a hallucination and it’s actually real?

That doesn’t help the pain in my chest. Fuck, I’m screwed. I’m a therapist. Not a survivalist. Or a fighter. Or in the military.