Chapter Twenty-One #2
"Yes."
"And did we come get you for a phone call?"
"...no."
"Exactly," Dr. Mason smiles. "Because we would come get you. No matter what. If Wendy were hurt, we would come get you. So what does that tell you?"
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, and I... I focus on Wendy.
I think of her face, her green eyes, her freckles like constellations that I love to pattern when she thinks I'm not looking or when she's asleep, her plush, soft lips, and her bright smile.
I think of her soft hair, vibrant against the white of our sheets, my hands tangled in it as I kiss her.
I think of her voice, of her laugh, of her.
I just think of her.
And I feel my heart rate slow.
I feel my breathing even out.
I feel calm.
I think of my sons.
Of Liam, who looks so much like me, it's uncanny. I think of his sly smile when he teases his brother, his smile when he makes a trick shot, and his laugh when he plays video games with his brother.
Noah, my baby boy, my little ginger rocket, Wendy's red hair, my brown eyes, her freckles, his artist hands drawing pictures and proudly showing us.
I think of the pitter-patter of his feet running to the door when I get home from work, wrapping his arms around my waist, and yelling, "Daddy!"
I think of Liam trailing behind him, spinning a basketball in his hand, and asking if we can shoot around before dinner.
I think of Wendy peeking her head out the kitchen doorway and telling us dinner will be ready in fifteen, and I make a beeline to her because before I do anything else when I get home, I need to kiss her.
And I do, while our boys yell ew behind us, but I don't care because I missed my baby all day.
I missed my family. I'm home. And I'm safe.
"My wife is..." I inhale, hold, exhale. "...okay. She's okay. She's okay."
"Yes," Dr. Mason says, grinning. "She's okay. So, was the nightmare a thought or a fact?"
"A thought."
"Yes. And what are the facts?"
"My wife is safe. My boys are safe. I am safe."
Dr. Mason smiles. "Yes, Atlas."
I nod, repeating the mantra in my head.
My wife is safe. My boys are safe. I am safe.
"This is going to happen again," Dr. Mason tells me plainly, shrugging his shoulders. "We cannot control the thoughts, but we can work through them. Don't run from fear, don't argue with it—dive in and work through it. Ask yourself, what are the facts?"
"Wendy is safe, at home, with our boys. They're safe with her. I am safe. I am at Story Grove."
"And why are you here at Story Grove?"
"To get better."
Dr. Mason smiles approvingly.
"And that's how we get better."
◆◆◆
"How do you feel today?"
"Good."
"Nightmare last night?"
My lips curve into a grin. "No, actually."
"That's good. How does the medication feel?"
"I feel a little groggy, but okay."
"That's normal until your body levels out. Do you feel like you can wade through the panic a bit better?"
"Yeah, it's... thoughts used to be at a ten, now they're at like a five."
"That's good," Dr. Mason nods, writing something down. "It's supposed to turn down the volume, so you can focus on the logic."
They started me on a low-dose SSRI. I had resisted at first, negative connotations in my head of pills and being overmedicated and being a zombie, until Dr. Mason explained it to me in a better term.
He has many patients who show great success and improvement with the proper combination of medicine.
And the more I thought about it, well, I'll do anything to get back to my family.
He mentioned a sleep aid, but I declined that... for now. I want to manage the nightmares, and the SSRI seems to be helping, as well as Dr. Mason's techniques of talking myself through the nightmares.
When I wake up and feel the need to panic, I catch myself and talk myself through it.
My wife is safe. My boys are safe. I am safe.
"What about you in general?"
I pause. That's a little more difficult.
"I miss my wife. I miss my kids," I shrug, before huffing a laugh.
"Ain't that funny. I spent a year neglecting them, purposefully distancing myself, and now.
.. I miss them so much I want to cry. I miss my wife's laugh, her smile, her smell.
I miss watching Liam and Noah play together.
I miss watching basketball with Liam. I miss Noah showing me his latest painting.
I miss family movie nights. I miss date nights.
I miss kissing my wife. I miss having sex wit—"
I cut myself off, realizing my mouth moved faster than my brain, and Dr. Mason laughs.
"You're expressing very normal thoughts about your wife. It's okay."
I shrug, though the grin on my face stays.
"I think that's progress. For so long, your mind leaned into avoidance—if I'm not around my wife, the nightmares calm.
The fear is more manageable. If I'm not around my family, if I don't think too much about them, I won't have nightmares.
If I avoid my wife, maybe it won't hurt so bad if she dies. "
I still flinch at that spoken out loud, but... I don't instantly spiral at it. I nod my head, agreeing with his correct words.
"You weren't managing the problem; you were avoiding it. That was easier and less scary."
"I just... keep thinking of how badly I fucked this up. I spent a year separating myself, while my wife was practically begging to help me, to fix me, for me to just talk to her. She set up a couple's therapist appointment for us. She fought so hard for us and I..."
"Avoidance," Dr. Mason points out to me, and I nod.
"Now she's separating herself from me, and I want to hold on as tightly as I can."
Dr. Mason tilts his head.
"Do you want to talk about that today?"
I look at him questioningly.
"The neglect."
I flinch.
"What you did to your wife and your kids. You do need to face that. You can't just avoid it. There's no healing in avoidance, Atlas, remember? That's the whole reason you're here in the first place."
I nod, gritting my teeth and trying to breathe.
"I want you to keep an open mind. I want you to remember our tools if you start panicking—feel it, walk through it, sit in it, focus on the facts. This is going to be hard, but you can do this. I know you can."
“Okay,” I whisper.
"From what you've shared with me about the year—" he starts, and I squeeze my eyes tight, but focus on grounding myself.
I press my feet into the floor, I feel my hands pressing into my knees, I inhale, hold, exhale.
Dr. Mason continues, "—the walking away when she's trying to speak to you, emotionally withdrawing, physically withdrawing, snapping at her, and even the instance where you yelled at her after your nightmare—it's a pattern of behavior... and I would consider it emotional abuse."
Abuse.
The word is sour, ugly, and it burns to even think about.
Because it's true, and the truth fucking hurts.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
"Missing the therapy appointment, especially, seemed to be the final straw for your wife. That's when she started... changing, right?"
I nod, shame flooding my chest.
"She came home from the appointment and I..." I scoff at myself, shaking my head. "I acted like a fucking asshole. I acted like I didn't know where she was."
"Why did you do that?"
Instinct screams at me to deflect, and I tell it to fuck off.
I dive in.
"So I could play dumb instead of having to explain how I missed all the reminders she put in our calendar, and she told me at home before I left for work that morning.
I was stressed about it all night, and then when I got into work that morning, I.
.. I deleted the appointment. Like it wasn't there in the first place. I convinced myself it was fine."
Dr. Mason nods encouragingly.
"I just... wanted the problem to disappear," I finish lamely.
"You gaslit her," he observes gently. "You caused her to question her memory, her reality. You took control of the narrative to protect yourself. And when that becomes a pattern, Atlas, it can be dangerous. For her."
My stomach rolls and I try to keep breathing, running my hands through my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.
Wendy, I'm so sorry, baby. God, I'm so fucking sorry.
"I'm fucking pathetic."
"You're not pathetic, Atlas. What have I told you?"
"To not insult myself," I reply, sheepishly.
"Why?"
"Because it's just a form of self-harm, and self-harm isn't accountability."
He nods.
"I didn't mean to hurt her."
"I know," Dr. Mason nods, his voice gentle. "But your impact matters more than your intentions. The pattern of behavior, the choices you made, did harm her. They harmed her enough that she wants to leave you because of it."
The damned document flashes in my mind, the words taunting me.
PETITION FOR LEGAL SEPARATION
Petitioner alleges that the marriage has suffered an irretrievable breakdown due to the following ongoing conduct by Respondent.
Respondent repeatedly withdrew emotionally from Petitioner and the marital relationship, failing to engage in meaningful communication, affection, or emotional availability.
Respondent agreed to attend couples therapy to address marital distress but failed to appear for a scheduled appointment without notice or explanation.
Respondent's disengagement extended to the minor children, including a lack of presence and emotional unavailability, causing distress and confusion for the children.
It paints an incredibly accurate picture of me failing as a husband and father for an entire year.
I can say that I was mentally ill, suffering from PTSD, but is that supposed to make people understand and just dismiss the harm I caused my wife and children?
No, because it's not an excuse, just an explanation. There is no excuse for my behavior, for my choices.
Explanations don't heal; only changed behavior does.
I could have gone to that therapy appointment. I could have asked for help sooner. I could have chosen differently.
It's not my wife's job to fix me, but fuck, she tried so hard.
And all she got in return was my neglect.
"That does not make you irredeemable, Atlas," Dr. Mason says, his voice steady. "Especially because you're here now. You recognized it. You're taking responsibility. You're working to change. That matters. That's something to be proud of."
"It doesn't make me feel any better, though," I admit.
"It's not going to," Dr. Mason shrugs. "And you shouldn't wash away that year in your mind. You need to remember it. Not to punish yourself, but to make sure you don't repeat it. Because Wendy will remember it."
He leans forward in his chair, eyes meeting mine.
"The same way your nervous system remembered the trauma even when your mind tried to convince you that you were fine," he says, "hers remembers too."
Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat.
"How do I fix this?"
"You already are, Atlas," Dr. Mason says soothingly. "It's not an easy fix—"
"No," I take a deep breath. "I want to talk to her. To them. I want to apologize. I need to apologize."
"You're going to see them when you leave here, right?"
I swallow hard.
"If Wendy wants to see me. I just... the last time I saw her, I was a mess. Goddamnit. She's probably so fucking confused. I neglected her for a whole fucking year, and then I was begging her to not leave me. Fuck, I don't even know what I'm going to say when I see her again..."
Dr. Mason thinks for a moment, before his eyes light up.
"How do you feel about writing a letter?"