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“After the crash. How have you been handling things?”
“Fine. Why?”
I shrug, putting the photos back in the box. “Just curiosity. I mean… we both went through something traumatic. There shouldn’t be any reason I wouldn’t ask you about it. Or wonder how you’re doing.”
Camden runs a hand along his stubbled jaw, then tilts his head left and right as if he’s trying to release tension. He won’t meet my eyes and I’m on the verge of telling him to forget about it. I don’t want to push him into anything uncomfortable.
“I’m still having nightmares,” he says, and my heart breaks over how tired he sounds. As if he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since last February and that admission has done him in.
In addition to the exhaustion I hear in his tone, I can also tell he’s skittish about divulging this to me. I could leave it alone but something tells me not to.
“Want to tell me about them?” I ask.
“Not really,” he mutters.
“You know I’d understand,” I assure him.
“I know you would. But what I don’t understand is how you seem so well adjusted and I’m still dreaming of plane crashes.”
He sounds so angry toward himself… as if this is a weakness he can’t control.
I move across the garage to him, putting my hand on his forearm. “There are no rules as to what’s right and what’s wrong when it comes to grieving or handling loss. And I can assure you, I’m not totally well adjusted.”
“Maybe not,” he says, eyes roaming over my face. “But you sure as shit have shown resilience like I’ve never seen before.”
I’m both pleased by his compliment and sad that it makes him feel lower about himself. I’m no psychologist but if I had to guess, I’d say Camden hasn’t processed the loss of his team very well. I don’t know what he’s done over the last year. I know he’s continued to play hockey, but past that… has he gotten help?
I know I have. Not only from my support group, but from friends, family and a great therapist. Both Travis and I saw counselors to help wade through our grief, pick up the broken pieces and put them back together again.
Still… there are moments I feel as broken as the night I got the call that the plane had gone down. Those times are thankfully fewer and farther between.
“Did you talk to anyone after?” I ask hesitantly.
“By anyone, you mean…” His words trail off deliberately, prodding me to seek clarity.
“A professional.”
“No.”
That’s it. Just… no.
“Family?” I ask.
Camden makes a scoffing sound. “My dad and brothers aren’t exactly the type to discuss feelings.”
That’s an interesting thing to say. “Why not?”
I’m relieved to see a genuine smile on his face. “They’re great… don’t get me wrong. It’s just, they have this mentality that feelings are stupid and that which doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.” He says that with a robotic, nasal tone, as if he’s repeating something learned in a handbook.
“Why are they that way?”
“Army. My dad retired and both my brothers are active duty. They have a mindset that you tough things out. You deal with it and move the hell on. You don’t have to air it out to fix it, you only have to be stronger than it.”
I find that incredibly sad. “Your mom?”
“Died when I was ten.”
And that right there explains it. Camden comes from a family that buries feelings and I’m not sure he’s ever been permitted to hurt.
