Liam's List (13 page)

“
It’s not what’s down
there.” Sighing heavily, I tapped a finger to my forehead. “It’s
what’s up here. He’s got TBI.”

“
TBI?” She stared at me,
her eyes questioning.

“
Traumatic brain injury,”
I patiently explained. “A mild case of it.”

“
Don’t matter.” Chelsea
took a swig of her coffee and leveled a cool gaze at me. “When you
heal his head down there, it will heal his head up here.” She
mimicked my actions, tapping a finger to her temple. “Get
it?
Capische?”

I shot her a look of
disbelief as though to say,
That’s your
solution to traumatic brain injury?

Pressing her hands to the tabletop, Chelsea
leaned forward. “Sex heals,” she said. “The more sex you have, the
healthier you get! The anecdotal evidence is staggering. And
remember how you made up a sexual bucket list? Why don’t you have
Liam make up a list, too?”

I leaned forward, pressing my hands flat to
mirror hers. “Liam doesn’t need a sexual bucket list. He needs
help. Professional help. I think he may even have some form of
PTSD.”

I was stunned silent for a
moment.
That was it!
I lifted my fist, then let it crash to the tabletop as an
idea took root.

I couldn’t help Liam with his TBI. No one
could.

But if he had PTSD, he could definitely get
help. A professional could help him.

Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?

“
Sorry, Chels. I’ve gotta
dash!” I stood abruptly, drained my mug of coffee, and set it in
the sink before swiping my keys off the kitchen table.

“
Hey!” she squawked. “I
thought we were going to have a
Vampire
Diaries
marathon.”

“
No time. I’ve gotta go to
the library,” I said in a rush. “Lots of research to do. I’ll tell
you more about it later.”

“
Fine!” Chelsea scowled.
“I guess I’ll watch it all by myself. With friends like you, who
needs chlamydia?”

Chapter Fifteen

Vivian

Of course I knew of PTSD. I’d read about it
in books, seen it portrayed in movies, but I’d never confronted it
face to face. And if Liam did in fact have some form of PTSD, I was
determined to learn all I could about it. For I didn’t want to
merely weather this storm. I wanted to navigate it well.

At the college library, I pored over every
book I could find on PTSD.

I learned that even way back in the fifth
century BC, PTSD symptoms were documented by Herodotus. He
described how a Spartan was so shaken by battle that he was
nicknamed “The Trembler.” He wrote about a wounded Athenian soldier
who went blind after seeing his comrade get killed.

More alarmingly, new research showed that
among those who had a diagnosis of PTSD at some point in their
lifetime, approximately twenty-seven percent had also attempted
suicide.

Day bled into night, and there in the
moth-filled library, I read until the words blurred on their pages.
Even then I refused to stop. Rubbing my eyes, I strained to see out
of them, waiting for the blurred words to resolve into something
that was legible.

It was almost midnight by the time I snapped
the last book shut.

But I’d learned a lot. I learned that in
order for a person to be diagnosed with PTSD, three or more of the
following needed to be present:

1. Psychic numbing/ emotional
anesthesia—displayed by a noticeable disinterest in doing things
that were enjoyable before the traumatic event.

2. Avoiding thoughts or feelings associated
with the traumatic event.

3. Avoiding people or situations associated
with the traumatic event

4. Distorted sense of blame for one’s self or
others connected to the traumatic event.

5. Feeling detached, isolated, or estranged
from other people.

6. Difficulty having or showing loving
feelings or being intimate.

7. Memory problems that are exclusive to the
traumatic event.

8. Being stuck in severe emotions related to
the trauma (horror, shame, sadness)

9. Increased arousal symptoms such as
irritability, increased temper, or anger, or hypervigilance that
may resemble paranoia.

10. Difficulty falling or staying asleep,
difficulty concentrating, and being easily startled.

I sat back in my chair, the gears of my mind
working, analyzing. Liam had almost all of those symptoms and now I
could attach a name to it.

Liam had PTSD. I was sure of it. And it was a
relief to actually have a diagnosis because it meant I could help
him. I could get him professional help, someone who could treat his
condition or guide him in sorting out appropriate treatments.

When I got home that night, I found Liam in
the living room, adjusting a pillow on the sofa. For a brief
moment, I remained standing at the corner of the room, studying
him. If he noticed my presence, he didn’t show it.

In time, I broke the silence. “Why are you
sleeping on the sofa?”

“
There’s a bee in my
room,” he said without emotion. “The bee is really mad and he just
needs some time to sort himself out.”

“
I have a room, too, you
know.” I hinted not-so-subtly.

He scratched the thick growth of stubble on
his jawline. “I need to be by myself tonight.”

“
Oh,” I managed. Even
though I’d informed him that I would be back at seven and it was
now past midnight, he didn’t even bother to ask me where I’d been.
I told him anyway. “I was at the library.”

“
Humph,” he grunted. I
didn’t fail to notice the way he clenched his jaw when he spoke.
And his entire body seemed tensed as he arranged himself in a
horizontal position.

I slipped my handbag off my shoulder and
slowly approached the sofa. Chewing on my bottom lip, I was quiet
for a heartbeat before I asked, “Are you okay?”

“
I’m okay.” He released a
gruff sigh and flicked on the TV. “What’s
not
okay is you keep asking me if
I’m okay.”

“
All right.” I conceded.
“I’ll stop doing that. And how about you tell me what you’d like me
to do so I don’t piss you off the next time?”

“
Right now,” he said
wearily, “I just want to be left alone.”

Too bad. I wasn’t going to leave him
alone.

Not right now. Not when we had so much to
discuss.

Shadows pooled under his eyes, and he seemed
so tired, so lost, so defeated that I blurted out, “I’m pretty sure
you have PTSD.”

He froze and looked at me for the first time.
“I don’t have PTSD.” His expression dared me to pick a fight, but
little did he know I was prepared for a showdown.

“
I think you
do
.” I gave him a serious stare. “You have
all the symptoms. You’re detached, you’re always on alert, you’re
always angry, and—”

“
PTSD is load of
bullshit,” he cut in, his voice turning hard and cold. “It’s full
of contradictions. You want to know what PTSD is? Let me tell you
what it is. It’s a catchall phrase for how soldiers react to things
after coming back from war. How I react to things right now,
that’s
what kept me
alive in Iraq. In combat, they’re called survival
skills.”

“
I know they are, but
you’re not in combat anymore.” Then I stopped myself. Liam was
right. It was still a battle for him.

A battle on the home front.

The war in his mind and in his heart was an
ongoing battle.

“
Don’t you understand?” he
implored, his eyes filled with bleak despair. “It’s normal for me
to feel this way. These reactions were necessary for my survival in
Iraq. They’re just not that easy to dial down now that I’m
home.”

“
I understand,” I said.
“And I’ve been reading up on this. Combat stress reaction is called
PTSS, which is post-traumatic stress syndrome. So if you’re saying
you don’t have PTSD, then maybe you have PTSS. You exhibit all the
reactions that are reasonable to traumatic situations. It only
becomes a disorder if it’s left untreated.” I
moved closer and willed my words to take root within him.
“
Don’t let it become a
disorder.”

He dropped his gaze, his chest rising and
falling with each deep breath. “I just need more time,” he bit out
quietly. “To recharge my batteries.”

“
But, Liam,” I persisted.
“There are other symptoms. You’re highly irritable. You fly off the
handle over the slightest things. You have difficulty
concentrating. You can hardly sleep. You avoid places. You avoid
people. You avoid…” I swallowed hard. “You avoid me.”

Sighing, he buried his head in his hands and
scrubbed his scalp. “I don’t want to be a burden to you, Viv. I’ve
got too much shit going on inside my head. Too much fuckin’
emotional baggage.”

“
Everyone comes with
baggage.” My hand reached out to caress the exposed planes of his
upper back. “I love you enough to help you unpack.”

His head snapped up.
S
omething softened the fierceness of his
gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But I
don’t need your help.”

I jerked my hand away and dug my nails into
my palms. My eyes stung. It hurt so much to watch the man I loved
fall apart. Self-destruct. “I’m not going anywhere. You need help,
Liam, whether you want to admit it or not.”

The stubborn set of his jaw told me I was
wasting my breath, but I wasn’t about to give up on him that
easily.

He rose from the sofa and paced the room,
shifting his long limbs with restless vigor.

I waited. And when he took
a few paces in my direction, I stood in his path and closed the
small gap between us. “Do it for me,” I whispered. “Do it for us.”
I heard the pleading in my voice. And I hated it, but I hated the
thought of losing him even more. “Dig down deep in your heart and
get the help you need. See a psychologist or a psychiatrist.
Someone.
You need help,
Liam. Professional help.”

“
I’m not crazy.” A muscle
twitched in his jaw. “I’m not gonna lie on a couch and talk about
my feelings. And I sure as hell don’t need help from some shrink
sitting in an office who has never spent a day in battle. Who has
never experienced war. Who does not understand and who will
never
understand.”

“
Just because you need
help, it doesn’t make you weak.” I caught his gaze and refused to
let go. “It doesn’t make you crazy. And if a shrink diagnoses you
with PTSD, it does not
define
you.” My words gained momentum, tumbling over
themselves in a rush to be heard. “You are so much more than a
soldier, Liam. You are so much more than a survivor, and you are
one
helluva
lot
more than just a diagnosis.”

“
Why can’t you accept that
I don’t need anyone’s help?” He wrestled with my unwavering gaze.
“Not yours, not some shrink’s, not anybody’s.”

“
Oh yeah?” I challenged.
“What’s that line about denial not just being a river in
Egypt?”

“
It’s not denial. I’m just
selective about the reality I accept.”

“
Liam!”
I yelled, unable to find the air I needed to keep
calm. “
When you deny and ignore, you
delay. When you accept you have PTSD and fight it, you
conquer.”

Another pause. A long one. Steady breaths.
Finally, he looked at me, his face full of desperation and anger
and something else I couldn’t read. “I can help myself.”

“
What?” My voice pitched
higher. “Oh, you mean by getting drunk all the time? Drinking until
you pass out? Self-medicating with alcohol? Some days you smell
like you’ve been soaking in a vat of bourbon. That’s not living,
Liam.
You’re
not
living. You’re just going through the motions.”

He released a gruff sigh before his gaze
shuttered.

“
I used to know you cared.
And I miss that man.” My heart was so full—full of love and full of
sorrow—that I feared I would burst. “I feel you slipping away from
me. And I don’t know how to stop it. Your life is spinning out of
control and it’s affecting me, it’s affecting us. Get the help you
need. At least give us a fighting chance. I don’t need a perfect
relationship. I just need you to fight for us.” Lowering my gaze, I
fought back my tears with deep breaths.

Seconds passed. Then he hooked a finger under
my chin, tilting my face to his. In his shadowed eyes, I saw a thin
veneer of control over his emotions. “Viv.” His voice was a soft
rasp. “Whatever’s going on with me right now… you did not cause
it.” He ran a knuckle along my cheek. “And as much as you want to,
you cannot cure it.”

My hand came up to touch
his face, my fingers tracing the shape of his jawline. “But
you
can,” I said with
resolve. “You can see a doctor and get the help you
need.”

Just as quickly, his hand fell to the side.
And the tenderness in his eyes subsided into a cold wall of anger.
“Enough.” His tone was rapier-sharp and I tensed at the sudden edge
in his voice. “As far as I’m concerned, this conversation is over.”
He grabbed his wallet and keys and stalked across the room.

My heart sank faster than an anchor. “Wait!”
I called after him. I knew I sounded frantic, but I didn’t care.
“Where are you going?”