Wade
Surprisingly, my therapy session with Dr. Langford hadn’t been too bad. Talking about Ray came naturally. She’d been in my life for so long that she had secured a permanent place there, regardless of our currently unresolved relationship status.
Our session had concluded with a series of breathing exercises to help regulate my emotions, should I feel that overwhelming pressure of an anxiety attack brewing.
I hadn’t had to use the techniques outside of practice yet, but I knew that being in the treatment facility was a controlled environment, and the true test would be when I went back to real life, and my triggers.
After grabbing a quick lunch in the large cafeteria, which surprisingly had delicious food, I made my way back to my room to change into some work clothes. I didn’t need to be sullying my good jeans while mucking out stalls after group therapy.
I changed into one of my more worn pairs of Wranglers and a basic black T-shirt before throwing on my boots and grabbing my Stetson off the small desk in the corner of the room.
I took a second to marvel at how quickly I’d folded myself into a routine in the two short weeks I’d been there. The easy cadence of getting up, attending therapy, grabbing food, and going to work had kept my thoughts from drifting into uncomfortable territory.
Breathing came easier, the nightmares didn’t wake me from a dead sleep, and for once, I felt like the weight of life wasn’t holding me down.
Following the same routine as that morning, I locked up my room and made my way down the long corridor to the large meeting space reserved for group therapy.
Just like in the movies, everyone sat around in a folding chair circle, sharing the shit that haunts them. There were about ten people already seated, waiting for the session to begin.
Around the room, every face told a story. We had veterans, assault survivors, first responders, and then there was me—the lowly cowboy who’d been shot in a freak accident.
Most days, I struggled with feeling like I wasn’t truly damaged enough to be here. That was a harrowing thought in itself. How did you judge someone else’s pain and say yours doesn’t match up?
I took one of the empty seats, leaning back in the folding chair and crossing my legs at the ankles in front of me.
The group therapist, Leslie, took a seat directly opposite the circle from where I was sitting and smiled at each and every one of us individually.
Even though we were here as individuals, there was a strong focus on camaraderie and finding common threads among our traumas. It had been preached to us that creating a support system was key to managing expectations for continued healing back in the real world.
Each group session rotated weeks and times, so you got to meet and hear from residents of varying walks of life. The group was never the same, but the emotional damage each of us carried with us was always a common thread.
“Hey, y’all!” Leslie remarked cheerfully. She was a petite, late-thirties, soccer-mom-vibe type of woman who, in my opinion, talked way too animatedly for a group therapist focusing on trauma and PTSD.
A mumbled greeting came from around the circle as each of us readied ourselves for the onslaught of sharing we were about to do.
Leslie didn’t bother recording our group sessions. This wasn’t something that was going to be analyzed by our individual therapists later.
Group therapy was solely focused on sharing your heaviness with those around you who may or may not have similar stories, but who had been through similar emotions.
“Would anyone like to start us off today?” she asked, looking from one person to the next, willing someone to speak up. No one seemed to take the bait, and the echo of silence in the room was deafening.
Who really wanted to be the first person to trauma dump all over their peers in group therapy? Not me.
“Wade!”
Fuck.
I looked up from beneath the brim of my hat, not having bothered to take it off. I had honestly hoped that I would get away from sharing unscathed and catch a quick power nap during the session.
Leslie looked back at me with a huge smile, pleading with her eyes for me to share something with the group.
“Um, hi, I’m Wade, and I’m emotionally damaged?”
A chuckle echoed through the room as all the residents loosened up a bit.
Leslie laughed loudly, shaking her head as if I were the most hilarious person she’d met. Something about her zest for life and her relentless happiness helped me relax a bit.
“Funny! You’re funny, Wade,” she chuckled. “If you don’t mind, we’d love to hear a little bit about why you’re here with us at ERRC.”
This was the part I hated. I hated the constant need to relive the incident over and over again.
Dr. Langford had drilled into me since my first session that repressing the trauma surrounding the shooting and acting like it never happened didn’t make it go away.
I needed to face the fact that it happened; it changed my life, and I was going to grow and move forward from it.
Clearing my throat and sitting up straighter in my seat, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“My name’s Wade. I’m here at ERRC because I was shot in the back after helping rescue my now sister-in-law from drug dealers who were threatening to kill her daughter.
I struggle with PTSD because of the incident and the subsequent loss of my ability to ride horses.
I am a retired rodeo cowboy, so that pill was hard to swallow. ”
The room was silent as everyone nodded their heads and listened with rapt attention as if my story was the most riveting part of their week.
“I decided that I needed to make an effort to deal with what happened to me so I can move forward with my life. I’ve got a girl back home who has seen all the good and broken parts of me, yet somehow still loves me. She deserves to get the best version of me.”
“And?” Leslie prodded. I knew what she was hinting at, and I hated saying it. It sounded selfish, but I knew it was a pivotal part of my healing journey.
“And, I want to be the best version of myself because I deserve it.”
“Very good, Wade,” the therapist commended. “One last thing before we move on, I want you to take a second and reflect on your trauma. Can you tell me one good thing to come out of it?”
My eyes shot up to hers, and I swear I saw a hint of a smile playing on her lips. A subtle challenge.
Something good to come out of getting shot in the back? What the fuck good could have come out of that?
This wasn’t something I’d had to share before in group therapy, so I didn’t have a canned response at the ready like every question before.
I took a minute to think, picking at the skin around my thumbs as I batted around ideas in my head. Finding something good that came out of trauma seemed like an oxymoron.
As I sat surrounded by peers who’d gone through similar or more excruciating traumatic events, the only face I saw was Ray’s.
She was the best thing that had come out of all of this. The ache of unspoken love had lingered for what felt like forever. The reason for finally surrendering to it could always be traced back to the sharp, sudden sting of that gunshot.
If I hadn’t been shot, I would still be able to ride. I wouldn’t have turned into the grumpy asshole who snapped at anyone with a pulse. I would have continued using humor to hide the gnawing feeling of regret each time I neglected the swirl of emotions that surged when Ray was near.
If I hadn’t been shot, I wouldn’t have pushed her against that brick wall outside of Jack’s and tasted her perfect lips, heard her needy moans, or felt how responsive she was to my touch.
Just thinking about her made me smile, and I looked up at Leslie, her smile now wide. I could see the lightbulb turn on in her head as she and I both realized the small breakthrough I was having.
At the end of the day, if I hadn’t been shot, I wouldn’t have Ray the way I’d been dreaming about for years.
Before I could answer her, one of the meeting room doors opened up and Dr. Langford came in, striding over to stand behind Leslie, whispering something in her ear. Both of their eyes flicked to me, and I felt my heart begin to race.
What had I done?
Was I in some sort of trouble?
“Wade, do you mind coming with me?” Dr. Langford asked, extending her arm toward the meeting room door. I could sense everyone’s curiosity as to what was going on, but none of them dared speak.
I nodded silently, standing and following my therapist into the hall. She stopped right outside the door as it clicked shut behind us, putting her hand gently on my forearm.
“You’re not in trouble,” she said, and I felt my anxiety relax marginally.
Memories of being called to the principal’s office briefly floated through my mind, and hearing that I wasn’t in trouble quelled a bit of the terrible scenarios I’d been conjuring.
“Is everyone at home okay?” I asked breathlessly, my body doing its best to catch up with my mind as my panic receded.
Had something happened to Pops?
Were Stella and the baby okay?
I closed my eyes, leaning into the box breathing that Dr. Langford had taught me in one of our first sessions.
Breathe in for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
Release for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
With each repeat of the breathing exercise, I willed my heart to beat regularly, slowing its rapid pace. Dr. Langford stood silently, letting me regulate my emotions. The knowledge that she was beside me was comforting as my heartbeat slowed.
“Yes, everyone’s fine. I’m sorry to have scared you. We got the results of your diagnostics, and the panel wanted to meet with you to discuss them. The only time that worked for everyone was right now, hence my pulling you out of an important therapy session.”
The results were in?
Fuck, I had just done my testing and scans yesterday. How had they gotten the results and come up with a diagnosis so fast? Surely that meant that the original doctor’s suggestion stood, and they had been right in keeping me from riding.
Coming out of the swirling haze of thoughts clouding my mind, I noticed Dr. Langford was walking down the hallway toward one of the small conference rooms.
She must have instructed me to follow, but my brain was slow on the uptake, swirling with thoughts and emotions. I took a deep breath, steeling my resolve, and walked behind her to my inevitable execution.