Chapter Twenty-One
Atlas
November
It's called Story Grove Mental Health Rehabilitation.
It's about an hour from Mercy Ridge—from my wife, from my boys. Might as well be on the other side of the universe with how much space I've placed between us this past year.
After I finally told Dr. Wilson about that night, about the nightmares, about the thoughts in my head, he recommended that I needed more intensive care.
Fuck, I can't believe how badly my mind has decided to fuck up my near perfect life.
I had the plan of going to the first appointment, getting help, getting back on track, getting my wife back, seeing my kids, and undoing all of my fuckups from this past year.
Instead, I'm further away from them and won't be able to see them for at least a month.
My mom asked me if she should ask if Wendy would come visit and bring the boys. I said no. I don't want them to see me in here like this. I know I shouldn’t be ashamed, but saying it and hearing it enough doesn’t change how I feel.
And I am ashamed.
I did respond to her petition for separation. Probably the first unselfish act I've done in the last year—whatever she wants. I’d lay the world at her feet if she asked me.
Twelve months. I have twelve months until Wendy can divorce me. It's like a ticking clock in the back of my head, the timeline of how long I have until my lifetrulyends.
Now, I sit in front of Dr. Mason, my therapist during my stay.
He looks young, maybe Silas’ age, with kind eyes like Dr. Wilson, like it's a therapist's requirement or something. Although he tells me he's a little different from Dr. Wilson, as he's a real head shrinker—a psychiatrist.
He wears a gold wedding band on his finger proudly, and there's a picture on his desk of him holding another man, both in suits and locked in a romantic embrace, his husband.
The sight, like the pictures in Dr. Wilson's office, is a nice reminder of why I'm here, why I'm sleeping on an uncomfortable twin mattress, and why I attend group therapy and art therapy, and any other therapy they think is good for me.
Wendy. Liam. Noah.
I arrived about a week ago. When I told my parents about Dr. Wilson's recommendation, they made magic happen fast. They wanted me to get in ASAP, so I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to Wendy and the boys.
I figure they probably didn't want to see me anyway, and the sooner I get in and get better, the sooner I can see them.
I didn't want to see them when I'm still...like this.
Dr. Mason can finally give me a diagnosis.
"You went through something incredibly traumatic, Atlas," he says, his eyes serious but soft. "From Dr. Wilson's notes, from what you've shared with me, I can confidently diagnose you with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."
PTSD. Word association always puts that next to combat veterans, to survivors of mass shootings and near-death experiences.
To diagnose me with it feels almost fraudulent.
"I just don't really understandwhy.Why am I feeling like this? Why wasn't it instantly after Si—" I cut myself off, before clearing my throat and forcing out through gritted teeth, "After... Silas tried to shoot himself."
Dr. Mason scratches something in his notebook, and there's a small, pleased smile on his lips.
That gives me the strength to continue.
"I thought I was fine. I was telling people—my wife, my parents—that I was fine, because I thought I was..."
"The human mind is quite powerful... but it can also be our worst enemy. Your nervous system didn't forget. I don't even think you gave yourself any time to process it," Dr. Mason says, tapping his chest over his heart. "So all this trauma and fear and terror were just sitting in your body, in your mind, curdling. A slow poison."
