Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
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.
I hold back tears, my throat feeling like it’s being slowly crushed by a strong hand. My ear hurts like a bitch anytime the tag shifts, which, because it’s so big, is pretty much anytime I move my head. My hair is still in some semblance of a ponytail.
Slowly, the burning in my eyes stops, and I stare down at my shoes. Such familiar things. I wear them every day to work, the laces tied in a perfect knot that allows me to slip them on hands-free but keeps them from falling off.
They’re muddy now. Everything is muddy. And now that I’ve slowed down, I realize this place is cool. Much cooler than I’m used to. It’s not cold, by any means, and the air is humid as hell, but I’d guess it’s no more than seventy.
I suck in a breath, and as I do, my brain screams that I’m not safe. Not safe, not safe.
What would I do if this were a client who wasn’t sure if they were in psychosis?
First, I’d check in and see how many of the five senses they can access.
I pull in a breath, feeling the way my clothes move with my chest. With that breath comes the smell of mud and earth. Birds sing nearby. My mouth tastes sour. I notice the way my hands are clenched, and I release them.
Okay. Not good, but you can still have psychosis with all five senses.
What beliefs do I have about the situation?
Everyone’s out to kill me.
Check. Could still be psychosis.
Comorbidities? Depression. No drugs or regular alcohol. I wasn’t even drunk before any of this started. So what triggered it? Usually there’s something. Was it the stress of my dream? How can I treat this? I’d need meds. And therapy.
This doesn’t feel right.
I stare out over the forest, fighting the instinct to hold my breath. What do I do? I don’t know how to process trauma as it’s happening. I talk about it after it happens in the chair. Or if it is still happening, it’s not during the session when I’m in that fluffy pink chair.
I want that fluffy pink chair.
My breaths want to be high and fast in my chest, and I know that’ll reduce the oxygen to my brain. So I force myself to breathe out to the point where I feel like I’m drowning. Then back in again. Then out.
I need to keep calm. If this is psychosis, then I need to get help. Someone should be able to help.
Like Seven.
Right. I’m calling him a number like an animal. But I realize I don’t actually know his name. He also might not be helpful. In fact, he might be more dangerous than anyone here.
That cold creep of panic sets in, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of my head screaming that my little psychosis diagnosis is really denial.
How could it be real? I’ve never been hunted by…
murderers. I wouldn’t know how to handle that.
I count a bad day as when they discontinue my favorite ice cream.
Denial is what happens when you’re put at the edge of a cliff and told to fly.
Denial makes you say: ‘Oh, they wouldn’t expect me to fly, this isn’t real, where did this cliff even come from? ’
I find myself wanting desperately for Seven to be a part of psychosis. Because if he isn’t…
I suck in a breath as a profound sense of…loneliness washes over me. It settles over my limbs like a weight.
Lonely. I huff a strangled laugh. It’s ironic, since the last thing I want is to see people here. Real people, anyway.
And that’s when I realize the birds have stopped singing.
I freeze, adrenal system pumping. And that’s when I hear it.
Voices.
For a second, my heart lifts. Voices. People. They can help me. Maybe call the cops. Get me checked into a mental hospital.
I look for them, raising my hands in the air to motion them over.
Then I register the sounds they’re making. They’re coming from down the hill, and they sound like coyotes—yips and yells, hoots and whistles.
Immediately, my stomach washes in cold energy, and I stand there, frozen. What if they’re real? The sounds of crashing brush get closer. And I realize they’re running.
No one should be running at me. They can’t even see me.
That spurs me forward. I grab my backpack and take off. Only, my movement is loud, and it doesn’t take long for my blind sprinting to wind me. I crash into brush and leaves that snap and crack and announce my presence. My breathing is heavy, and I’m exhausted from everything that’s happened.
The yelling gets louder.
Fuck!
I press harder, pushing my legs as fast as they’ll go, scrambling to get up over large rock piles.
This is not good. My thoughts are in a panic.
They’re too close. They’re too close, and I’ll never be able to outrun them.
I’ll have to outsmart them.
Immediately, I force myself to slow down and breathe.
Think Holli, think.
I’m standing near the top of an outcropping of rocks. The branches of the trees around provide some good cover, but I duck behind a large rock, so I’m completely hidden.
The men’s voices sound below me. There’s a scream of terror that immediately makes my heart try to burst out of my chest. I need to fight.
To do anything that gets rid of the threat.
But I force myself to stay still. I can’t fight.
I have no weapons. I also can’t run. Running now will only alert them to my presence.
“We got him, boys!”