Mental Health
Mara
When I made the appointment at the local rehab center, they did not mention anything about a group. I couldn’t talk about my feelings to myself, let alone a group of randos with their own laundry list of issues. Not that I’m judging anyone for their illness or vices. I don’t take well to sharing. Never have. It’s been hard enough withMurphy.
I could not believe I said what I said. The second it came out, I backpedaled as fast as possible, but the words were out. He smiled with teeth even, and I couldn’t deny it in the face of all that. Instead, I did what I always do: evade and change thesubject.
I spent another sexless night alone and woke up early to get to the clinic fifteen minutes earlier than I should have been there. Thank you Army brainwashing. It would seem even if my entire military career had been wiped away with one little bullet, the muscle memory and anxiety about being on time stayedingrained.
The taxi driver forced me out of his car after I made him stay parked in front of the building for ten minutes, dreading walking in the door. Hospitals still scared me. The smell always reminded me of the operations, the pain, the loneliness. I hoped this place didn’t have a plastic chemical aroma which sticks to the back of mythroat.
When I needed to force myself into something, I created steps in my mind. Step one: enter the damn building. Step two: sign in and find out where to go. When I made it to step three and they pointed me toward group therapy for wounded vets, I wanted torun.
Murphy’s words came back to me. Telling me in no uncertain terms I would never get laid, or truly be with him, until I tackled this. I knew he held back from me, and not just the sex stuff. All of it. The high school memories were still intact, and even back then, he’d always looked out for everyone else before himself. Something so fundamental to a person wouldn’t change withadulthood.
So basically, he wouldn’t sleep with me out of some respect for my mental state. Which, I’ll grant him, is pretty jacked up no matter how much I tried to deny it toothers.
I stepped into the room and found a pot of coffee and water bottles to one side and seven chairs in a circle at the center of theroom.
A tall man with a slight limp in his mid to late thirties approached with a wide smile and high top haircut. He held out his hand, and I caught the good ol’ boy charm radiating from the man. “You must be Williams. Or if you prefer,Mara?”
I shook his hand and sized him up. At least over six foot tall. His jeans bunched up around his knee, and I’d bet a prosthetic fit to his thigh. And to be honest, I envied him for asecond.
Mental wounds didn’t show themselves to others like missing limbs or torn up flesh. While I had the scar on my temple, my hair covered it most of the time, so whenever anyone saw my records and noted a purple heart, I got the once over as if they asked what the hell for. I braced myself for more judgment from this grouptoo.
I’d let my mind wander, and tall and tight was waiting for me to respond to his greeting. “You can call me Mara. That’sfine.”
He nodded once and ushered me to the refreshment table. I took a bottle of water more out of something to have in my hands, maybe to hide behind if need be. “You can call me Parker. Is this your first groupmeeting?”
Something released in my chest when he didn’t say therapy. “Yes, my firsttime.”
“And what brought youout.”
My maybe boyfriend won’t have sex with me until I get help didn’t seem like the answer he wanted. “A friend suggested I might benefit from talking aboutthings.”
He nodded his head and braced his hands on his hips. “Well, we talk about things here so you’re in the rightplace.”
Guy missed his calling as a TV personality. How had he survived the military with his demeanorintact?
“Well, pick a seat. We are going to get started in about tenminutes.”
I turned and tried not to walk too fast to my chair. I settled into the hard plastic and waited for this nightmare to be over. I’d be having words with whomever booked my appointment about specifying group versus individual therapy. Not that I’d be more forthcoming in a one on onesetting.
A black man with a prosthetic arm entered, spotted Parker, and headed straight for him. They hugged like old friends before the man came over, tossed his backpack on the ground, and took a seat. He smiled ear to ear at me but didn’t sayanything.
Why was everyone here so far smiling so much? Maybe they turned their patients into Stepford Vets. A scaryprospect.
A minute passed of me trying to avoid new guy’s eye when a couple others filtered in, took seats, and then Parker took the last one. I focused on keeping my hands and knees still while I waited for theinevitable.
He opened the group and gave everyone a nod but then locked his eyes on me. “Now Mara, you’re the only new person here. If you don’t mind, we can skip the introductions and let people introduce themselves as they share. Did you want to go first?” His hopeful, eager, too nice guy eyes buckled my resolve. Damn men and thoselooks.
I didn’t stand up. In fact, I tried to sink further into my chair and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. A childish move, but the only thing keeping me from running at themoment.
“I’m Mara Williams. I was in the Army…” A couple guys interrupted with a low pitched “hooah.” I didn’t look at them either and launched back in. “I was injured in Afghanistan, took a bullet to the head, without the Kevlar.” A few sucked in breaths stopped me this time. It took a second to get back on track. “I lost all my memories from my time in service, and that’sit.”
I finally glanced up to meet their eyes, and everyone wore the same “well, shit” expression. Parker recovered first. “Thanks for sharing, Mara. If you have more you want to say later, you are more than welcome to join backin.”
He faced the black man next to him. “Fields, you want togo?”
