37. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“Demons”
I envy the lonely, all that empty space.
“ A rnaz?” My therapist frowns. “Can you tell me if you’re experiencing thoughts of self-harm?”
Eight points, one assist, and no rebounds.
Why didn’t I rebound?
I release a long yawn.
Thirty-two minutes past six, only eighteen minutes left.
Eight points. Pitiful.
I wince from the burn in my throat. “I keep tasting vodka.”
“Thanks for letting me know. Let’s address that in a moment. Can you tell me if you’re experiencing thoughts of self-harm?”
“Just vodka.”
“Thank you.” She scrawls something down. “Okay, you said you taste it all the time?”
“Yeah.”
“If I recall correctly”—she scans the screen of her tablet—“that was your father’s drink of choice.”
Four fouls. Three were my bad, but the fourth was definitely a bad call.
“ Coach benched me for the second half yesterday.”
She observes me in silence before replying, “He did? Can we hold that thought for one second?”
I nod.
“The vodka. Do you think it’s related to your college coach joining your current team’s coaching staff?”
I shrug, crossing my arms.
“That’s okay. If there is a connection, it may not be obvious. We can go slowly. Coach benched you for the second half of the game. How did that make you feel?”
Every time I swallow, it burns.
“I keep chewing these tea tree toothpicks.” I pull the one I’m gnawing on out of my mouth and hold it up to her. “Sthyyll vaahd-kuh,” I say on a yawn.
“Hmm.” She angles her head. “When did this start?”
He said he felt it too back in college. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
“It makes me feel sick. I hate the taste.”
“Arnaz, may I share an observation with you?”
Why does every hotel room have generic art? Ocean views, mountains, clouds…
“May I?” she asks.
Vodka burns worse than salt water.
“Sorry?”
“May I share an observation with you?”
I reach into my pocket to swap my toothpick for a fresh one. “Shoot.”
“You know how we talked about the window of tolerance concept?”
“Yeah, you said I got a narrow window.”
Her eyes crease at the corners. “We observed that your nervous system becomes overwhelmed by big emotions, and dissociation can kick in as a protective mechanism. What else do you remember?”
I clench the toothpick between my teeth.
Sid won’t let me lose my starter position. I need to buy him a car. I think I know the one.
“It’s okay if you don’t remember. I can provide a refresher. When you’re inside your window of tolerance, you feel present?—”
“I am present. Every game. That’s why I’ll be tight if Coach doesn’t start me.”
She waits a beat, then continues, “Tell me more.”
“’Cause I’m a starter. I’ve proven myself,” I explain.
“Okay. I don’t doubt that. What would it mean if you didn’t start?”
“I just told you. I’ll be tight.”
“You’ll be upset?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me ask it differently. If you don’t start, you’ll be upset, but then what happens?”
I rub my sternum . All week, some dick with heavy boots has been flicking around a lighter in there.
“I’m gonna have a talk with him.”
“Okay, and if you have a talk with your coach and he still benches you, then what?”
“I would…” I bounce my knee. “It’s fucked-up.”
“Mm. Because you earned your position as a starter?”
“Yes.”
She nods and places her stylus down. “I hear you. I do.” She leans back in her chair, looking out the window. “I don’t know.” Her chest rises, then falls as her fingers tap on the screen. “I’m sensing there’s something deeper at work here. Are you open to us trying an exercise?”
Oh god .
I cross, then uncross my ankles.
Thirteen minutes...
The heavy-footed dickhead behind my sternum discovers a blowtorch. I grunt out an “Okay.”
“Close your eyes.”
I rub my palms on my thighs as everything goes dark.
“Great. Let’s take a few deep breaths. Ready?”
“Mmhm.”
“Okay, breathe in deeply for five seconds. Good. Now release the breath for seven seconds.”
My lungs fill on three, so I’m stuck holding air until she tells me to let go.
“Again. Deep breath in for five.”
I crack one eye open as I suck in air.
Twelve minutes.
“And release for seven.”
“Last one. Deep breath in. And release. Great.”
I was kinda on beat for that last one .
“I want you to imagine showing up to your game tomorrow night, and your coach announcing the starting lineup, and you’re not listed.”
My eyes shoot open.
“Don’t worry, we’re not going to call it into existence if we imagine it,” she assures me.
Releasing a shaky breath, I close my eyes again.
“Tell me when you’re there.”
If Coach doesn’t start me, I can already hear the pundits. Welp, folks, it’s written in the glitter. Arnaz Cade—new face of progress or failure? Is this the last dance for the first out player in the league?
“Are you there?”
“There,” I mumble.
“Fantastic. Can you tell me what comes up for you the second you’re informed you aren’t starting?”
Another obvi question? What’s up with her today?
“I’m upset,” I grit out.
“Okay. Can you describe where you feel it in your body?”
“I feel upset.”
“Could you describe what sensations you feel and where?”
“Here.” I flick my hand from my head down.
“Okay. You feel it in your head, neck, and chest? I got that right?”
I nod.
“What about your stomach?”
Vodka and bile.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Focus on just your throat. Keeping your eyes closed, can you tell me what sensations you feel?”
“Like?”
“Hot, cold, tight, sore?”
I swallow. “I told you, vodka.”
“So, it burns?”
I nod.
“What else?”
I try to swallow. “Feels like someone’s doing this.” I wrap a hand around the front of my throat.
“Like someone’s choking you?”
I nod.
“Can you see who’s there choking you?”
My eyes shift, searching behind my eyelids.
I shake my head.
“Are you still standing before your coach?”
I flick her words out of the way to look around.
“No,” I mumble.
“Can you describe where you are?”
I can’t see shit, but I feel…something. I clear my throat. “It’s dark.”
“Okay. What else do you see?”
I rub the heel of my palm into my sternum as a room comes into shape. “Same room.”
“The large room with a fireplace?”
I nod.
“Is the fireplace on?”
I nod again.
“Okay, and where are you?”
Where I always am. Sliding down the wall.
“In the corner.”
“Standing or hunched down?”
“Hunched down.”
“Okay. Does it feel okay to stand up?”
I sink lower until I’m on my butt with my knees bent in front of me.
“I’m good here.”
“That’s fine. Let’s have you stay there, then. Do you feel like yourself? Younger? Older?”
I study my hands. “I feel like me.”
“Okay. Anyone else there now?”
I shake my head.
“Can you tell me what you’re feeling now?”
I hate that question.
I hate it.
“My throat was just starting to open.”
“Do you know what’s making it close?”
“I hate that question.”
“It’s closing because I asked what you’re feeling?”
Her voice is never cold or rushed. Always even, with a warm lilt, even when I know she can tell she’s annoying the shit outta me.
“Yeah. There’s a door.”
“Can you describe the door?”
The fuck? It’s a door.
“The hallway is dark.”
“The hallway that’s in front of the door?”
“Yes.”
“What or who do you think is behind the door?”
I feel… it …cowering, and my eyes prick with rage.
“I don’t know.”
I hate him. He’s so fucking useless. Always hiding in there, stinking of fear.
“It’s okay that you don’t?—”
I dip my chin inside the neckline of my shirt. “I hate him.”
“Could you tell me who you see there? Is it the same six- or seven-year-old as last time?”
“He’s so useless. Afraid all the time.”
“How does it feel to hate him?”
I swipe my cheek against my shoulder.
The fuck am I crying for?
“He’s just so scared…”
“Is he still really young? Like six or seven?”
I nod.
“Phew.” She blows out a breath. “To be six or seven, scared and alone in that big house. That sounds really scary.”
She takes a moment and then asks, “Do you think—and you can absolutely say no—do you think we can invite him to sit with us for a while?”
No! He’s dirty, and he smells.
I shrug.
“Yes or no? It is completely up to you.”
I don’t open my eyes because her eyes are open, and she’ll catch me checking the time. So, I don’t know how long I sit here, but it feels like it’s long enough for this session to be over.
Why isn’t it over?
“Okay,” I mumble.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
I sure as hell ain’t gonna be scared like him. “Yeah.”
“Okay, you can invite him in whenever you’re ready.”
I don’t speak or look up as the door creaks open. Keeping my chin tucked, I stare between my legs.
She has this way of breathing that’s contagious, like yawning. I breathe in deeply.
Then I hear it…the barely-there shuffle.
“Is he there?” she asks.
I nod as the fucker with the blowtorch discovers a ladder.
“What’s he doing?”
I don’t have to look to know. “He’s hiding by the door.”
“Think we can help him feel safe enough to come closer?”
My nostrils flare.
Why did he even come out if he’s so afraid?
“Okay. How about we sit with him for a minute?”
Listening to the stilted breathing across the room, I nod.
My feet press into the floor as I push back against the wall.
“Alright. Maybe we can let him know, with or without looking at him, that he can leave whenever he’s ready, and that it was really brave of him to come out and sit with us today. You think we can do that?”
I scrub away the tears that have dripped onto the knuckle tat on my left hand.
What she said. You can go now.
“Open your eyes when you’re ready.”
I minimize my reflection in the small square in the corner, wiping my eyes on the shoulder of my T-shirt.
She does the thing where she smiles at me with her eyes before they close, giving me permission to close my own eyes and take a second to breathe.
After, she asks, “Would you like to take a minute to get a sip of water, stretch, or just breathe a little longer before we talk about what came up?”
“I’m okay,” I answer.
“Okay. How was that for you?”
“Peachy,” I huff into a tissue as I blow my nose.