8. Gwen
CHAPTER 8
GWEN
“ D amn, that was a fine-ass man,” Demi says the second we step outside.
While I one hundred percent agree with her, all I say is, “He was very helpful, that’s for sure.”
She clicks her tongue against her teeth as we walk down the sidewalk. “For God’s sake, can’t you at least admit he was fire?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. He was handsome.”
“ Fire ,” she prods.
“Ugh. He was fire .” I exaggerate the pronunciation like she did.
“Much better.” She purses her lips around the straw and sucks down so much of the milkshake, I get a brain freeze just watching.
“Thank God he was there when we needed someone,” I say. A shiver rocks through my lean frame as I ponder what the outcome would’ve been if he hadn’t been.
At the least, my purse wouldn’t still be strapped across my torso. I can’t even bring myself to imagine a worst case scenario.
“He swooped in like only heroes can.” Demi fans her face. “Oh, and I think you need to buy a lottery ticket.”
What is she talking about?
“Why?” I indulge her, knowing I’ll end up regretting doing so.
“Statistically, what do you think the probability of getting a knife pulled on you twice in one week and by two different people is?”
“I have no idea, but I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”
“Exactly, yet it happened to you. Therefore, you should play the lottery.”
My forehead furrows as I work through her mind-boggling theory. “Getting into two dangerous situations with knives in such a short period of time would make me incredibly unlucky . Therefore, your theory has no root in logic.”
“I didn’t claim it was logical. But… If you’re beating the odds with dangerous situations, you could potentially beat them with positive ones too.”
“I guess anything’s possible.”
She smiles mischievously. “Would that include you stopping by to bring Silas a thank you gift?”
“What? No.”
“Why not? At the very least, he saved us from the hassle of having to replace our debit cards, and you know what a pain in the ass that is. Not only the actual inconvenience of going to the bank to get a new one but my credit union charges ten bucks a pop. Ask me how I know,” she says but continues before I can reply. “I’ve lost the fucker twice and got hacked once.”
I nod. “I remember that.”
“Do you know how annoying it is to change your card information on all your stuff? I’m talking about TV apps, bills, and every website you frequently purchase from. And that means remembering the passwords to be able to log in and add the new information. Who remembers their passwords? Not me.”
I raise my hand. “I do. I have them written down in a notebook I use for strictly that purpose.”
She groans. “That’s because you’re the most responsible person in the world. You might even be part robot.”
I smack her arm with the back of my hand. “Shut up. I’m no different than anyone else my age.”
“You’re an anomaly in the best way. Most artists have their heads in the clouds and live inside their creative thoughts, which makes them forgetful by nature. But not my little Gwennie. You somehow manage to have fully developed both sides of your brain.”
“Oh, come on. You make me sound like some overachieving genius.”
“Which you are.”
“Demi, cut it out. You can’t be objective when it comes to me. I’m average at best in every way.”
“That’s utter bullshit,” she states as we reach the lot where our vehicles are parked.
She tosses her cup in a trash barrel and I do the same with the bottle of water Silas gave me.
“I love you so much,” I say, wrapping my arms around her.
“I love you back. When am I going to see you again?” she asks before we part.
“I don’t know. Let me see what’s up with my parents. I still haven’t seen Dean or Gayle since I’ve been home.”
“I bet your mom’s not pleased about that.”
“Under the circumstances I’m dealing with, I think she can cut me some slack.”
“We’re talking about Claire,” she reminds me.
I blow out a mouthful of air. “I know. But this time she’s going to have to exercise some patience. As you witnessed firsthand when I passed out, I think it’s safe to say I’ve barely scratched the surface of dealing with the assault.”
“Do you have a plan for how you’re going to fix that?”
“Nope, not yet. But I’m working on it.”
“When we spoke on the phone you mentioned you’d been having panic attacks. Have you had any recent changes or stressors in your life that could be the catalyst?” Dr. Gillis asks.
I rub my sweaty palms on my legs and let out an irony-filled laugh. “You could say that.”
“Why don’t you tell me about them,” she says.
“A little over a week ago I was in my apartment in North Carolina, packing up to return home for the summer break, when I was assaulted by a male classmate.” I pause as she taps the keys on her laptop. When she nods, I continue.
As I share the events of that day, it’s like I’m reliving every single moment. Fear envelops me as I relay the details, and by the time I’m finished, I’ve broken out in a cold sweat. And I’m suddenly lightheaded.
“Look at me,” Dr. Gillis says, drawing my panicked gaze to her calm one. “Take a deep breath with me, Gwen. Inhale slowly through your nose and hold for three.” She raises one finger for each second that ticks by. I draw air into my lungs. “Slowly exhale through your mouth,” she instructs, and I comply, following her lead. We repeat the process four more times.
“How are you feeling now?” she asks.
“Embarrassed, but I guess I’m also relieved I didn’t pass out.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Her lips curve into a reassuring smile. “Can you tell when you begin to feel anxious?”
I nod. “Usually. But by the time I do, I’m already spiraling into a full-blown attack.”
“Whenever you notice the panic coming on, even if it’s during the period of escalation, I want you to remind yourself to breathe. When we experience anxiety, we tend to hold our breath or to breathe rapidly, so slowing down the pace and focusing on drawing more air into your lungs can help in stopping the onset.”
“Okay.”
“Another thing I want you to do is to think of that panicked state as temporary. I know it seems like it’s endless when you’re in the midst of it, but it’s not.”
“I can try to do that.”
“How many times have you passed out since the assault?”
“Two.”
Her fingers tap the keys. “Can you remember what you were thinking about prior to losing consciousness?”
“The first time, I was in my bedroom trying to nap, and I started thinking about Jerry and what he did to me. It was like I went back in time, reliving every second of it, and then my vision got spotty and next thing I knew I was waking up on my bed.”
“What about the second time?” she asks.
“My friend and I had gotten milkshakes and we were walking down King Street. A young guy approached us, pulled out a knife, and told us to give him our purses. I couldn’t believe I was facing off against a knife-wielding maniac for the second time in less than a week. But then, before we had a chance to hand them over, a man disarmed and restrained him until the police could get there. Once the cops had taken our statements and left, I started to feel lightheaded. That’s all I remember until I woke up on a couch inside an office.”
“When did that happen?” she asks.
“A few days ago.”
She types some notes on her laptop. “And when did the initial assault take place?” she asks.
“Nine days ago.”
“I want to ask you some questions about the assault itself.”
“Okay.”
“How long did it go on for?”
“I don’t know for sure. I think it was only five minutes or so, but it felt much longer.”
“What are the injuries you sustained?”
“A concussion, some possible bruised ribs…” I pull my hair away from my left cheek. “And this.” To her credit, Dr. Gillis doesn’t outwardly react.
“How long did you stay in the hospital?”
“Just overnight. I wanted to get back here and sleep in my own bed.”
“Are you in a lot of pain?”
“It’s only my ribs at this point, and it’s not unbearable. I’m moving around more carefully, which is helping.”
“Do you have a history of panic attacks?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder?”
“No, but I’m definitely a type A personality. I like to be organized and do things a certain way.”
“Is this your first time in therapy?”
“Yes.”
“What are you hoping to gain from our sessions?”
“Control of my anxiety. The idea of randomly passing out is unnerving. The lack of control and vulnerability frightens me. What if I’m around people I don’t know when I have an attack and pass out? I could hit my head and get badly hurt.”
“I want you to practice the breathing technique we did earlier. Do it at various points throughout the day. Being mindful about your breathing will help to keep you calm.”
I nod. “I can do that.”
“There’s one more thing I’d like you to try. When you lie down to go to sleep, I want you to relax every part of your body. You can start at your head and go down to your toes or vice versa. Pretend there’s a warm light moving throughout you and relaxing you inch by inch. Feel the heat washing over and through you as it travels from the top of your head to your shoulders and so on.”
“What’s the purpose of doing this?” I ask.
“It will give you something to occupy your mind as you try to fall asleep, and it’ll relax you. In fact, you may find yourself drifting off before you finish the exercise.”
“I like the sound of that. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“How many hours per night would you say you’re getting?”
“It varies but usually about five hours.”
“And is that enough for you to be able to function throughout your day?”
“Yeah. It’s not like I’m doing anything strenuous, and if I need a nap, I can take one.”
“If you continue to struggle with sleeping or you find yourself getting even less, let me know. I can prescribe something that will help.”
I nod in agreement, but I don’t plan on taking any prescriptions to help me sleep. Not even if it gets worse. The whole point of me talking to her is to help me deal with the assault and to emotionally heal. If our therapy sessions work, then sleeping better should be an automatic benefit.
She asks me some more questions about myself and then several about my parents and stepparents. I realize there’s standard background information she needs to know, but that part seems useless to me. I’m not here because of any of them. I’m here because of Jerry and the devastation he left behind.
She closes her laptop. “That’s all the time we have for today.”
I push myself up from the loveseat, reach in my pocket, and pull out some money. “When we spoke on the phone, you mentioned cash is fine, right?” I ask.
“Yes, but if you change your mind, I can always bill your insurance company.”
I hand over the money. “I’d rather pay out of pocket.”
I don’t want my parents to know I’m coming here. This is something for me, and choosing to keep it private seems to be best—at least for now.
Not that they’d have a problem with me seeing a psychologist. In fact, I think they’d be pleased to know someone was helping me deal with everything. My family probably feels like they need to walk on eggshells around me. None of them are equipped to handle my current situation any better than I am. But if I told them I was going to therapy, it would mean being barraged with a slew of questions I’m not ready to answer.
So for now it’ll be my secret.