Chapter 11 Warren
ELEVEN
WARREN
ANOTHER FOUR WEEKS LATER
Leather creaks underneath my weight, and I try not to fidget too much on the worn sofa, but the nerves gnawing their way out are becoming impossible to ignore.
A studious gaze watches me closely.
Ignoring him, I choose to read every word of every fancy degrees hanging on the wall instead of making eye contact. I’ll have to eventually, but the more time spend ignoring the man across from me, the less time spent talking.
“Should we get started, Warren?” a leveled voice asks.
Time’s up.
I lock eyes with Doctor Kevin Brunswick.
Holding back my sigh, I dip my head. “If we have to. No offense, I just…”
“Don’t want to be here?” The corner of his mouth picks up. “You won’t be the first or last person to force themselves into that chair. My advice: these are your sessions. You dictate what we discuss and what you disclose.”
I huff, knowing full well he’s full of shit.
Years ago, I forced myself to attend therapy.
It was ugly, reopening wounds and creating new ones.
It had to be done, and eventually, I saw an improvement in my wellbeing, but I’ve never been the same.
I’m a patchwork quilt, stitched together poorly and held together by anti-depressants and a penchant for not discussing my issues.
Now, my arm’s twisted, and the one constant in my life hangs in the balance, which is why I swallow my indignation and wave my little white flag.
“With all due respect, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’m sure you’re great at what you do, but I doubt anything we discuss will change who I am.”
He crosses one leg over the other, settling into the matching one-seater. “Let’s start there. Who are you?”
My eyes cut to the folder to his left. “Surely my file tells you everything you need to know.”
“It tells me you’re not new to therapy, which helps.”
Being under his microscopic inspection makes my skin tighten. “You’re questioning why years of therapy haven’t fixed me?”
He shakes his head once. “I prefer the word heal. The brain is complex and delicate. A broken arm in tenth-grade can cause problems years later, even for the most physically fit individual. The same can be said for PTSD. Healing isn’t linear.”
My lips twist at those four letters. I’m not ashamed, not anymore.
As a first responder, I’ve attended scenes no person should have to see.
We witness people at the lowest or scariest moments of their lives.
I’ve had colleagues who’ve called it quits, unable to continue what they do because of the traumas they’ve seen.
The department does their best to offer support, but a lot lack resources and funding.
There was a point I was ready to throw in the towel.
My family, for what felt like the hundredth time, picked me up.
I’m not ready to surrender. I can’t. I’ve already lost too much and I guess that’s why I’m here today despite my conscience recoiling at the idea of speaking to this stranger.
“Cliché as it sounds,” Kevin continues, “I like to get to know my patients first. If you’re comfortable, tell me about your childhood, adolescence. Your family, friends, personal relationships.”
It’s a battle not to roll my eyes. Doctor Brunswick isn’t anything like my previous therapists. I’d guess he’s close to my age, which is where the similarities end. Optimism and patience radiate from him, telling me bare minimum responses will not pass.
“I don’t do relationships and keep to a small circle. It’s easier this way.”
“Easier how?”
The clock shows we have thirty-seven minutes remaining.
I stare at the ceiling. “Inviting someone new into my world wouldn’t be fair to them, and honestly, I don’t want to. I’d only disappoint them, for a myriad of reasons. My friends and family aren’t unfamiliar with my preference for solitude and avoidance.”
“Relationships aren’t for everyone. Some prefer to keep it casual.
There’s no judgment there.” He contemplates his next question.
“If this is the life you’ve chosen and you’re happy with it, I won’t sit here and force you to change your mind.
I guess my question is, is this the life you always pictured for yourself? ”
I huff. “Far fucking from it.”
The life I once envisioned sits dormant, eons away from reality. It wasn’t picture perfect and at times it was a little messy, but it was a life and I was living. Now, it’s about surviving.