Better Than Me (11 page)

Chapter 15: THEN-Last Summer

The girl my father picked up in front of Merten Hall last spring was like something you scrape off the bottom of your shoe.  Dirty. Flattened.  Unrecognizable, if you didn’t already know her.  After he greeted me with a concerned look and a hug…

“Hi, Biz kid.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

The questions began.  I gave vague, half-hearted replies.  He kept it up for about an hour

and then just gave up and allowed me to stay quiet, looking out the passenger window for the remainder of the trip.  He knew something was very wrong, but he didn’t pursue it.  My dad was intuitive like that when it came to me. 

             
My mother wasn’t quite so chill.  She was hovering by the door for my return.  I came into the house and practically slammed right into her.  She pulled me into a hug and I hugged her back, but not too hard.  If I gave in and hugged back too much, I would shatter into a million pieces.  I pulled away and gave her a tight smile, holding back tears, straightened my bag over my shoulder and marched down to my room in the lower level. 

I heard her greet my dad, “Cal, is she okay?” and his reply, “No, I don’t think so.”  How right he was. 

              Finally reaching my bedroom at home, it felt as if I had been holding my breath for hours.  I exhaled and fell to my knees on the floor.  Kicking the door shut with my foot, I crawled to the bed and climbed under the covers fully dressed.  I never turned on the light.  The crying began immediately.  It only increased when I realized my mother had made my bed for me, because the sheets were so soft and smelled so good.  I must have cried myself to sleep.  I remember waking to my mother stroking my hair and face.

             
Looking at me with eyebrows raised in concern, she said, “I don’t know what happened to you, sweetie.  Whatever it is you are safe now.  Do you want to come up and have some dinner with Dad and me?”

             
“I don’t think so, Mom. I just want to sleep.”

             
“Okay.”

             
Mom let me sleep until noon the next day.  I know I wasn’t asleep that whole time, but in and out.  When I wasn’tt sleeping my brain would go into overdrive, replaying everything, beginning with Neil’s rejection, on an endless loop.  My only reprieve was to sleep, so I’d force myself under again.  When Mom woke me, she told me I didn’t have to tell her or Dad anything.  They loved me and they wanted me to be well.  Hearing that, without any of the judgment I was throwing on myself was my undoing.  I threw my arms around her and cried for what seems like an eternity.  I couldn’t talk.  I just cried.  And she rocked me.  Finally, Mom told me she’d made an appointment for me with a counselor.  I needed to talk to someone.  She was right.  It wasn’t until tomorrow, but until then she was going to baby me.  It was all so kind and gentle, like she knew I was super fragile.  Mom helped me up out of bed, picked out some comfy pajamas from my drawer and walked me into my bathroom.  She started a bath and left, telling me to come upstairs and have something to eat when I was done.

             
I washed and conditioned my hair and scrubbed my body with the bath puff using my favorite apple body wash.  When the thought loop would try to play, I would submerge my head under the water and hold my breath.  I stayed in the bathtub until the water got cold.  Getting out, I dried my body and towel dried and combed my hair.  I couldn’t take the noise of the blow dryer.  The pajamas my mother had chosen smelled like my sheets, like home.  A sense that I was in a safe place started to leak in.  I had been on the edge for the past few weeks, on alert and trying to squash and control every feeling.  I knew I went about it all the wrong way.  I just needed a little guidance on how to get back to me, the right way. 

             
Climbing the stairs to the upper level of my house, my mouth watered at the smell of chicken and dumplings.  It’s not something my Mom would normally make in the summer, but I think she knew it would be comforting and I would eat it.  Entering the large space that was the family room, kitchen and dining room, she encouraged me to sit on the sofa and wrap up in some blankets.  I was visibly shaky.  That’s what happens when you are trying to hold yourself together and are finally slowly letting things go.  I sat and ate a small bowl of the chicken and dumplings.  It tasted better than anything I’d had in a year.  Mom turned on the television.  I made her click past anything remotely dramatic or sexual.  We eventually wound up watching a documentary about penquins.  It was about all I could handle.  We sat in the family room and barely talked, but it was comforting.  Mom let me fall asleep on the couch sometime during the afternoon.  I didn’t wake up until the next morning.  I didn’t have to endure the thought loop even once all night.

             
The next morning, my Dad came into the family room just as I was waking. 

             
“Biz kid, I’m going to drive you to the counselor,” he told me.

             
“I’m pretty sure I can drive myself Daddy.”

             
“Diane…your Mom, would kill me if I let you.”  I knew he was right.  Dad was the breadwinner.  Mom was the boss of health and safety.

             
“Okay, Dad.  Today, okay, but after today I think I can do it.”  All he said in reply was, “We’ll see.”  He was playing it smart.  It really wasn’t his decision or mine.  Mom would let us know when it was okay.

             
I got up and got dressed.  I put little effort into it.  Just threw on my bra, panties, t-shirt, track pants and a baggy t-shirt.  Hair in a pony.  Baseball cap. No make-up.  I ate a protein bar for breakfast.  I didn’t even know what time was my appointment was.  I just let my parents take over all the specifics.  It was a relief, but something I knew I couldn’t and they wouldn’t let go on for long.  Around 10 am, my Dad informed me it was time to go.

             
Walking into the counselor’s office, I caught my reflection in the mirror on the way up the stairs to the second floor. 
Who was that?
  She looked something like me, but tired, washed out.  I had never seen myself so pale and devoid of expression.  It was not the me I knew or identified with.  I looked on the outside like I felt on the inside.  Now there was no denying to anyone that I wasn’t okay.

             
No one told me if the counselor I was going to see was male or female.  I was a little surprised when the sign on the door read, Matthew White, PhD, Clinical Psychologist.  I wondered if he would be like my Dad, in his early fifties, or much younger.  Maybe I didn’t want to talk to a guy.  I mean, that was my problem, right? Guys?  But telling someone like my Mom might be worse.  A Mom would be ashamed of me.

             
I stepped up to the sliding window at the reception desk and knocked lightly.  A receptionist slid it open.

             
“I’m…uh…Biz…Elizabeth Connelly. I have an appointment.” I informed her.

             
“Yes, Elizabeth….Would you prefer I call you Biz?”  I nodded yes.  “Your appointment is in a few minutes.  Here are some forms to fill out.  Then just take them in when Dr. Matt comes to get you.”

             
There wasn’t anyone else in the waiting room except my Dad.  I really liked that.  I was still feeling pretty shaky.  It was concerning.  Was I losing my mind? What exactly was wrong with me?

             
The door by the sliding glass window opened and a medium build light brown-haired man in his mid-thirties walked out.  “Biz?” he asked looking at me.  My Dad stood up when I did.  The man introduced him to both of us.

             
“I’m Dr. White.  Most of my patients call me Dr. Matt, though. Ready to begin, Biz?”

My Dad moved to go with me. 

              I put my hand up.  “I got it, Dad, it’s okay.”  Dr. Matt smiled and nodded at my Dad, like it was a good thing.  Dad sat back down.

             
My session with Dr. Matt was fifty minutes long and I swear I cried through the whole thing.  I didn’t want to cry and I was even mad at myself for doing so.  He stuck with me the whole time as I heaved and gulped out my story.  How I let myself be used and even invited more abuse once I already felt so very bad about myself.  How I hadn’t and still didn’t expect to be treated poorly by people, especially ones I thought cared for me.  How I cut myself off and tried to kill all my feelings with alcohol and “the other poor choices.”  Hell, I couldn’t even articulate it, the slutty sex, I was so ashamed.  Dr. Matt listened.  He took notes and handed me tissues.  I’m fairly certain his trash can was going to have to be emptied right after the session, I’d filled it up so much.  Toward the end, he told me he thought I was having post-traumatic stress.  I frowned and challenged him.  I hadn’t been to war or anything, so how was that possible?  He told me how stress affects different people in different ways.  My stress came from trauma over broken trust-something I’d never experienced to that extent before.  I was also having symptoms of panic.  He wanted to see me every day one-on-one for a while and then after a week I could go to a group for stress and anxiety, too.  He also called my regular doctor to prescribe some anti-anxiety medication.  I cried over all of that, too.  I knew I was crazy.  Dr. Matt assured me I wasn’t.

             
I didn’t drive to see Dr. Matt the next day or for the whole next week.  My Dad or Mom drove me.  They hovered and babied, but never asked for answers.  I cried and talked and cried with Dr. Matt.  We discussed why it hurt so bad.  Why I made bad decisions.  Steps, little ones to take each day to feel better.  I took the anti-anxiety medicine when I felt like I would shake apart from panic.  Like I was going to die.  I didn’t want to die.  I just thought I might.  Dr. Matt taught me when I panicked to tell myself it would be over in 5 minutes.  He also taught me my mantra. 

             
After a week of almost constant supervision and chauffeuring, I was feeling like it was time to try a bit on my own.  Admittedly, I wasn’t 100 percent and I even felt unsure about trying, but I decided to give it a go.  I got up without being awoken, showered, dried my hair with the blow dryer (something I don’t think I’d done in a month), even put on make-up.  Entering the kitchen for breakfast, the look on my parents’ faces was my reward for being a little brave.  They both smiled.  Closed lip smiles, all the way up to their eyes.

             
“Oh, sweetie, you look so nice…so much better,” my Mom said emotionally.  Dad just continued to smile and shook his head in agreement.

             
“I’m going to drive myself, today and every day after.  Treatment group starts soon and that takes longer.  You don’t need to sit around and wait for me this way.”

             
My Dad cleared his throat, “I wouldn’t have cared if I had to sit for eight hours a day. I am just so happy to see a bit of my Biz kid back.”  I kissed him on the head for that one.  I’m 21, but he’s still my Daddy.

             
I worked my treatment program as best I could.  I knew I had about seven weeks to pull it together before I needed to go back to school.  My parents asked me once, only once, if I still wanted to go to Weldon.  They were giving me an out.  I could have taken it, but I told them, Yes,  I was determined to finish my degree at Weldon.  Something about not going back and facing down all the perceptions of me from last year felt cowardly.  Getting better meant being brave.  I took to heart everything Dr. Matt worked through with me.  I had been hurt.  My trust had been broken.  I didn’t trust myself.  I tried to punish myself.  Panic was my fight-or-flight reaction.  I had been traumatized.  And I wasn’t alone.  Many people panic.  Many people suffer from PTSD.  I was just facing it.  By the time I was a week away from going back to school I didn’t need my anti-anxiety meds anymore.  I was only taking them when I felt a panic attack coming on.  They were getting less and less with the use of other strategies.  Oh, I still had the pills, in case I needed them.  I wasn’t brave enough to go back without them, but it felt good to need them less.

             
The day before I left to go back to Weldon, I met with Dr. Matt.

             
“What do you think about going back, Biz?”  he asked candidly.

             
I replied, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous.  I feel unsure.  I don’t feel like the same person I was before all of this.  I feel a little beat up, but a little smarter too.  I don’t feel as ‘light’ as I used to.  Do you know what I mean?”  He shook his head yes.  “It’s harder to be open, to joke.  I am a more careful Biz now.”

             
“I rarely give advice, Biz, I try just to listen and coach, but I’m going to break my rule a little.  My thought is, don’t be too careful.  Don’t hide your light under a bushel.  Don’t forget Biz.  The Real Biz.  Not this summer’s Biz.  You will eventually be able to trust again.  Yourself and others.”

             
Armed with his words and my determination, my mantra and my just-in-case Xanax, I packed up and took myself back to Weldon for senior year.