3. Jahsir
jahsir
. . .
Crimson completely checked out of life after the robbery.
She was Scarlett’s mother and nothing more.
Gone were the playful jokes, outrageous laughter, and excitement about her favorite foods.
She was once again a shell of herself, the woman I met when I first got back to town.
She moved through each day like a ghost, barely speaking and existing in her own space.
Even the simplest tasks for Scarlett seemed too large to accomplish.
In the beginning, she sat up all night, afraid to sleep.
But after days of not sleeping, delirium crept in, sending her over the edge.
I encouraged her to sleep, but she physically couldn’t.
We tried melatonin; however, it only made her drowsy and was short-lived.
She was back awake within two hours. My mother had some muscle relaxers that she was sure would knock Crimson out.
Zahara brought over a bottle of Cyclobenzaprine and even offered to stay and help with Scarlett.
I was grateful for her help. Zahara and I rotated with feedings, changings, and taking Scarlett to and from daycare.
And while that happened, Crimson finally slept. But then, that was all she did.
With or without the muscle relaxers, Crimson hid from the world.
She confined herself to one part of my loft.
She barely spoke and barely ate anything.
She slept as if staying awake was too difficult to bear.
She was only awake long enough to take care of Scarlett.
That's when I realized she needed more help than I could provide.
I got in contact with management at the bank to see if they were offering a support group or therapy for their workers.
I was provided with information on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and given a list of therapists for her to call.
Crimson didn’t budge. ‘I don’t need a therapist, I’m fine,’ she maintained. It wasn’t until different sounds started to trigger her. Sharp thuds, sirens from the street below all took her over the edge. That's when she finally realized she may have had PTSD and needed additional support.
Finally, calling the therapist, she spent the next several weeks in Intensive Outpatient Therapy.
She eventually transitioned to a single therapist, one day a week.
I tried to give her space. I overheard her saying she felt guilty that the new girl she was training got killed.
She also expressed feelings of sadness, stating that if she had died, Scarlett would have no true biological parent who cared for her. That brought a moment of clarity.
Quite honestly, I used to side-eye therapy.
I thought folks were just bored and wanted to hop on the newest trend.
Shit, I even thought it was some shit people did when they didn’t have anybody else to talk to.
For me, the idea of sitting in a room with a stranger divulging my deepest insecurities or feelings just didn’t make sense.
But watching Crimson go through it changed my mind.
She didn’t do a complete 180, and I didn’t expect her to.
But I did start to see glimpses of her personality that I loved so much.
She started to be more intentional about how she lived day to day.
She no longer needed medicine to help her fall or stay asleep.
Though she still had a ways to go, she made a ton of progress.