Chapter 27
Texas was like a world of our own, a protective bubble that kept real life at bay. Penny and I returned to Singing River changed in ways we’re both trying to wrap our minds around. My future is still up in the air, but before we left Ty assured me he had some ideas, so I’m just trusting that the future I see for myself will work out.
But now that bubble we existed in has well and truly burst, and it’s straight back to the real world. As soon as we returned to Singing River, we got my sister set up, I moved into Penny’s house, and she hit the ground running to catch up on any work she missed while we were gone. She’s been working late hours with a couple of local musicians, and I’ve been quietly replacing light fixtures and touching up paint around the studio while trying to stay out of the way.
Now that I know how much she’s struggling to keep her head above water, I’ve looked for anything I can do to help, while making sure I don’t jump in and try to fix everything. I could tell when she asked it of me that she feels strongly about handling the mess that she was left with by herself.
Another reason I’ve been keeping myself busy is that, if I’m being honest, I’ve been dreading the therapy appointment. I’ve come close to canceling it every day since I booked it, but I know Cassie is right. If I ever have any hope of dealing with all my parents put me through, I have to do this. I’ve made a vow to myself that I’ll tell him everything and hold nothing back. I know from all the conversations Cassie and I have had over the years that the only way therapy will help is if I'm completely honest. And I’ve spent far too many years lying to myself and those around me. Plus, if I’m serious about building a future with Penny, she deserves the best version of myself I can offer.
So with trembling hands, I navigate to the confirmation email for the therapist I’m meeting with today and click the secure link to their video conference portal. My heart beats wildly behind my ribcage while I wait for approval to join the call. After the longest twenty seconds of my life, the screen lights up and the therapist appears. He’s younger than I expected, probably close to my age, with tattoos on every inch of skin visible other than his face. He wears a big friendly smile that instantly puts me at ease.
“Morning, Austin! I’m Ben,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring. “Hope you’re doing well today so far.”
We spend a few minutes making small talk, getting a feel for each other. I tell him that my sister’s a therapist and she’s the one who convinced me to give it a try.
“Smart sister!” he says.
“That she is, Ben. That she is.”
“So, what brought you to therapy?” His question instantly sends a spike of anxiety through me.
“Jumping right in, aren’t we?” My voice comes out thinner than I intend, betraying my nerves.
He offers a small smile but stays quiet, patiently awaiting my response.
“Do you want the long version or the short version?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with. As long as it's the truth.”
I reach for my bottle of water, swallowing down a large sip before responding. How much of my story should I disclose in our first session? After a beat of hesitation, I begin to unravel it, laying it all out for him to sift through with a fine-toothed comb. I start with my childhood, leaving nothing out. His face remains unreadable, no matter how grim the story gets. I tell him about life with my aunt and uncle, the years on the road, the loneliness, the drinking. It feels like I’ve been talking for hours, but it’s really only thirty or forty minutes. He nods, listening and occasionally writing something in his notebook.
“So, you use alcohol as a coping mechanism, would you agree?” he asks once I’ve wrapped up my story.
I nod. “I like the taste of bourbon, but we both know the flavor isn’t what I’m interested in these days.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
I huff a short laugh. “I think you know the answer to that one.”
Ben steeples his hands under his chin, like he’s thinking some things over. “Would you consider going to Alcoholics Anonymous? I don’t know what your schedule looks like in the near future, but once you’ve found a home base for yourself, would you give it some consideration?”
I’m taken aback by his suggestion. My drinking is just something I do when I don’t wanna think. To silence my mind. I’ve proven that I can go days without it, right?
“Eh. I’m not sure I’m AA material.”
“Let me ask you this. Do you have a desire to stop drinking?”
I take a second, thinking over his question. Finally, I give him the most honest answer I can find within my churning thoughts.
“I need to figure out how to be the best version of myself for my family. I’ve put them through a lot. And now that I’ve met Penny, she deserves the best version of me, too. If giving up drinking is part of that, then yeah, that’s what I wanna do.”
Ben sets his pen down, his expression thoughtful as he studies me, brows pinched. “Why for them? Why not for yourself, too?”
Sitting there blinking, I let his question settle over me. “They—” I clear my throat. “They don’t deserve to put up with my shit.”
He studies me so intently that I feel the urge to fidget, but with every ounce of willpower I have, I hold his eye contact.
“Do you deserve the things you put yourself through?” he asks, still not looking away.
I’m the one who finally breaks eye contact. Leaning back in my chair, I pinch the bridge of my nose, struggling to find a way to put my thoughts into words.
“When I was a kid, things weren’t always bad. It’s like my dad had two faces. There were times when things were good. Sometimes we made some good memories as a family. It would last long enough for me to feel a bit of hope, ya know? I’d think, This is great! My dad has decided to act like the other dads. Anytime I’d find myself thinking that, I’d care about what he thought of me just a little more.” I swallow down the emotions threatening to rise to the surface. “And I don’t want to care what he thinks of me, but I can’t help it. And when you’ve spent your whole life being told you’re worthless by the one person who’s supposed to protect you from that kind of pain, it makes it damn near impossible to believe anything else.”
“It’s completely normal to care about your father’s opinion. When we’re born, there are two people who are supposed to love and protect us more than anyone else—our parents. But your parents failed you, and because of that, you've developed a lot of negative beliefs about your own self-worth.”
I’m quiet, so Ben continues. “Have you ever heard of neural pathways?”
I shake my head and he puts up one finger for me to wait. He leaves the screen and returns seconds later holding a diagram.
“Okay, before we’re even born, we immediately start forming these pathways in our brain. Essentially, the brain makes connections and eventually those connections become a habit. And that’s the path your brain then wants to take each time. Think of it like this. For years you’ve taken the exact same road home every day, and suddenly you move to the other side of town but your muscle memory still tries to take you to that old house until you form a new habit of going down the new road.”
Ben looks at me and I nod, so he continues. “So imagine your brain has a million paths that you’ve taken throughout your life. Each one has formed when you’ve responded to certain stimuli in the same way over and over. Over time, your brain has recognized that as the ‘correct’ response. It’s possible to form new paths and react differently, but I won’t lie to you, it’s hard work and takes a lot of time. Are you up for it?”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Why not? It’s worth a shot.”
“Off the top of your head, what negative paths come to mind that you’d like to work on?”
“When things feel like they’re too much, my first instinct is to drink. I hate how I feel when I’m hungover. I hate the lightheaded feeling and the huge stretches of time I have no memories of. And I hate how everyone looks at me when they know I’m hungover.”
Ben nods his head. “This is good. Do you have another?”
I consider his question for a moment. “I wanna feel like I deserve it when good things happen to me. I’m tired of letting my dad’s words dictate my life.”
“Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Like I said, this is easier said than done, but for the next week, until we meet again, I want you to give this exercise a try. All right?”
I nod for him to go on.
“I want you to work on reframing these thoughts.”
I scoff at his words, and his lips twitch into that half smile again.
“Give it a try. One week. Instead of thinking you don’t deserve good things, I want you to try reframing it. Try very hard to think of yourself the way you do for your family. Put yourself in that scenario, like you’re on the outside looking in. Austin is part of that family, too, and he’s been through a lot more than anyone else in that unit. He deserves the good things in life, just like the rest of them. Try to extend to him the same care you give to those you love.”
“You know this sounds like some pseudoscience bullshit, right?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I sound like an ass, but he doesn’t flinch at my insult. In fact, his lip twitches ever so slightly.
“One week, okay? Give it one week and we’ll meet again to talk about what worked and what didn’t. You’re not going to get it right immediately. The formal diagnosis for what you’ve experienced is Complex PTSD. Healing takes hard work and time. One of the key things we need to focus on is forming new pathways in your brain. So, for one week, try to pretend you’re on the outside looking in. It might help to journal or make a list of ways you can reframe some of your negative thought processes. Then try putting them to practice. Also, I want you to give some serious thought to AA. Attendance will go a long way toward healing. I think between that and our sessions, you can see a path toward a healthier version of yourself. Will you think about it?”
I give a curt nod, and Ben looks down at his watch and back up at me. “We’re almost out of time. Is there anything else you want to discuss or have you had enough for one session?”
“No offense, but I think I’ve had enough for today.”
“No offense taken. This is hard work. You should be proud of yourself for taking this step, though. Do you want to go ahead and schedule for next week?”
I let out a huff of air. “Sure, why not.”
Once we’ve set up my next appointment, I sign off with a million thoughts running through my mind. Alcoholics Anonymous? That feels like a bigger step than even therapy. The whole idea unnerves me. The thought of sitting in a circle with total strangers, admitting I’ve got some issues.
I jump up and grab my guitar in hopes that the mindless act of running through strum patterns and riffs will calm me. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to feel the chords and vibration of the song, and all of sudden a melody floats to the surface of my mind. It’s usually the song lyrics that come first, but this time everything is backward. Grabbing a pen and paper, I start jotting down everything I can think of, but it’s just not happening.
I spend the next several hours working on the song with only a few lyrics to show for it, and even those aren’t very good. I’ve even tried changing up the chord patterns and adding different riffs to the melody I’m hearing, but the words elude me.
The lighting in the room is the first thing that alerts me to how much time has passed. My phone’s been on Do Not Disturb, so I’ve been well and truly unplugged from the world. When I check the time, a wave of guilt washes over me. Penny’s probably starving down at her studio. I’m sure she hasn’t taken the time to eat dinner.
Penn, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time.
Be right there with your dinner.
After placing a quick to-go order with Jackson, I slip on my shoes and head out, making it there in record time. Jackson has my order ready when I get there.
“Hey, man, thanks for this. No time to chat—I forgot to get dinner for Penny and I’ve gotta get this back to her,” I say, slapping two twenties on the bar. It’s more than enough for our meal, but I don’t have time to wait for change. Jackson doesn’t even have a chance to respond before I’m back outside, heading to the studio.
I’m turning the knob when I hear the first few notes of a slow melody playing. I freeze in my tracks, not wanting to interrupt what I’m witnessing.