1. Shay #3
I finish my shower and get dressed, a mix of negative emotions weighing down on me. This process is slow—I know because I’ve been told that about a thousand times. But sometimes, it’s really goddamn hard to accept.
As I plop down into my desk chair, I look down at my hand in disgust, hating that it won’t get better and that I won’t be able to play at the same level I used to. I’m so goddamn … mad. All the time. It lives in my veins like a smoldering ember, always ready to ignite.
But unfortunately, this crushing weight on my chest is a part of me now, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to shake it. If anything, it’s heavier than ever when I sign into my Zoom meeting and wait for Lorea to hop on.
Needing to look at anything but myself and my screen, I stare out of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook the city skyline. It’s one thing I never get tired of looking at.
Kyle trots into my makeshift office, water still dripping from the drink he went to get downstairs, and he jumps up on the sofa and snuggles into a cozy blanket.
“Good boy,” I praise him before redirecting my attention to studying the outlines of the buildings—something I’ve spent a lot of time doing.
Too much time wasted … staring at windows, practicing lifting small objects and small weights to strengthen my arm. So much time spent, and for what? To drop the shampoo bottle in the shower.
Wow, I’ve made such great progress.
“Good morning to you too, Shay.” Lorea’s sweet voice cuts through my rambling thoughts, and my eyes flash to the screen, finding a sarcastic smile on her lips.
“Sorry,” I mutter, trying to shake off the last few minutes … or years. “Good morning.”
I know she was just teasing. I’m sure I looked quite furious when she logged on. A reminder for next time to keep my camera off until she arrives.
“Don’t apologize. What were you thinking about?” she asks.
I stare dumbfoundedly into the camera because she knows exactly what I was thinking about.
It’s the same thing we talk about at every session, like a never-ending cycle.
I’m mad at the world … mad that what I’d spent my entire life working toward, sacrificing for, dedicating every goddamn second to was ripped from me in a single blow.
I don’t know how not to be mad about it. Or how to wake up in the mornings without my first thought being about my injury. I can’t imagine there will ever come a time where this doesn’t consume my mind completely.
“Come on, Shay.” She urges me to say all my rambling thoughts out loud. Although, if she can practically read my mind, I feel like it defeats the purpose.
“I …” I take a breath, louder than intended, before my words whistle through my teeth, each one harder to force through than the last. “I am … frustrated this morning because my arm failed me, and I want to”—I whip my hands through the air—“wake up from this nightmare.”
Her shoulders rise with a calm inhale while mine rise with a ragged breath as I try not to spiral into a panic attack, my chest tightening with each thump of my heart.
I expect her to tell me some magical therapist advice, like I’m being too hard on myself or that this is normal to feel. But instead, her next sentence takes me completely by surprise.
“You’re never going to wake up from this nightmare.”
Encouraging.
A laugh slips past my lips, and a nervous grin forms on hers.
“I’m sorry, Shay. Unfortunately, it’s the truth.” She gives me a second to adjust, but all I can form on the tip of my tongue are two words I certainly shouldn’t tell her right now, which start in screw and end in you. “What notes did you write today?”
My lips part at her question because it feels like she doesn’t trust me to write my positive notes like I have been.
I mean … you did write some definitely not positive ones this morning.
Shut up, me!
“I wrote I’m doing great, controlling the things I can control,” I tell her, not feeling that sentiment an ounce in my bones.
Amusement tips the corners of her mouth. “At least you’re writing them. Eventually, your brain will believe you.”
“So, basically, I just have to gaslight myself into being happy?” I laugh humorlessly. But the giggle that follows when I see her face is genuine. “What?”
I think my job as a client is to push her too, right? Or maybe I’m the worst client ever. All I know is that since we’ve been on the phone, the tightness in my chest has dissipated.
“Firstly”—she holds back her big smile, but I can see it in her eyes—“we are rewiring our thoughts and minds. Secondly, we’re not calling it gaslighting.”
“Fiiiine.” I concede.
As much as I might seem to hate my nonstop appointments, I genuinely don’t think I would be here today if it wasn’t for Lorea. She saved my life—maybe not in a dramatic fashion, but by helping me find the light again after being stuck in such a dark place.
“Talk to me. What’s new since our last chat?” she asks.
I lean back, settling into my chair to tell her how anticlimactic it’s been around here.
But she listens as if I were explaining how I flew to the moon, hanging on to every word like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard.