“Enough games, just tell her, Mom.”
My parents had another one of those wordless conversations.
My mom’s lips firmed and she nodded in decision. “Aileen, you know we love you, but ever since you came home you’ve been distant. Difficult even. You haven’t been yourself. We know being over there can be tough and a lot of people need help when they come back.”
She paused and looked at my dad.
“We just want what’s best for you. There’s a place we think can help.”
My hands clenched around the table, the wood groaning in protest. There it was. What I was afraid of.
“Help with what, Dad?” I asked, feeling brittle for the first time in a while. “What exactly do you think I need help with?”
“Anger management for starters,” Jenna inserted.
“Jenna,” Mom warned.
“It’s true.”
“Is it now? So, Jenna, how should someone feel if they wake up to someone in their house without permission or prior notice, cooking their food and throwing their stuff away? I think I was entitled to a little anger in that instance.”
“It’s how you expressed the anger that’s the problem,” Mom said.
“Yelling? Saying mean words? How is that any different than the ways you and Dad fought the entire time we were growing up?”
“Aileen, we’re not the focus right now. You are,” she said. “You can’t deny that you’re different. Hell, you threw away all the hard work you did in school to become a simple messenger. That can’t be a stable career with UPS, FedEx and email around.”
“Ah, right, it always comes back to that. My job. I like what I do. It’s interesting and challenging. I get to see parts of the city that I never even knew existed. Not that I should have to justify any of this to you as I’m an adult who’s perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”
My mom and I glared at each other, neither of us willing to budge on this issue. The funny thing was that even without my special needs, I wouldn’t have gone into the finance field. Being tied to a desk all day, every day, was my worst nightmare. I didn’t care if I would have made boatloads in that career. The working conditions would have driven me crazy. Worse, it would have bored me. I got creative in not so good ways when I was bored.
“We just think this place can help you, that’s all,” my dad interjected. He was ever the peace maker, smoothing over the disagreements my mom and I’d had ever since I was a child.
“So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Because I’m not the same person I was before I joined the Army, you think I’m broken and need fixing.” That was what hurt the most. My family loved me, but they had never understood me. Now it seemed like they couldn’t even accept who I’d become. “Of course, I’m not going to be that person. I went to war. I had experiences. That changes a person and not always in bad ways. It doesn’t mean I’m damaged or that I have PTSD or an addiction of some kind. I’m just a little bruised and scrapped up, not broken.”
Not every soldier who went over there came back with PTSD. Something the civilian population seemed intent on attributing to every soldier coming home. PTSD was a real problem. I knew soldiers who suffered from it. They were some of the bravest people I’d ever met. I wasn’t trying to down play PTSD or pretend it didn’t exist. It simply didn’t factor into my situation. I’d come back changed, but didn’t that happen to anybody who went through an intense experience?
I pushed back from the table, tired of this conversation. It was times like these that I wondered why I came back at all. Why I decided not to take the easy way out and turn myself over to the vampires.
“Aileen.”
I ignored my dad and headed to the coat closet.
“At least let me give you a ride home so you don’t have to take the bike,” he said as he and my mother followed me into the other room.
I yanked my jacket from the closet, putting it on with angry motions. “I don’t need a ride. I have a car.”
“Why didn’t you say you bought a car? You should have had your father go with you to make sure it was a good one.”
Unbelievable. I couldn’t win with them.
“It’s not mine. I’m using a friend’s.”
“Why can you borrow from a friend but not your family?” Mom’s voice rose, taking on an angry tone.
“Because they don’t shove things down my throat and berate me when I don’t do exactly what they want,” I hissed back.
They both flinched, and I took a deep breath. That had come out a lot angrier than I’d intended. Yet it was true.
