Don’t cry.
With pursed lips, I force a few breaths in and out, feeling the disappointment and sadness swirl inside of me before transforming to the two feelings I’m more comfortable with—frustration and anger.
It’s my emotional safe space these days, I swear.
Opening my eyes with a sigh, I bend down and grab the bottle with my right hand, lifting my left palm to catch the shampoo that I easily squeeze out. I massage it through my hair with my right hand doing most of the work.
My shoulder twitches, and without thinking, I reach up and scratch my scar that stretches inches across my skin.
I still can’t believe this is my life now. Therapy appointments—both for my mental health, which has been a hell of all-time lows, and my physical therapy so I can work on getting more strength in my arm and better reflex time. That’s all my life consists of—therapy appointments and well, taking care of Kyle.
Thankfully, I’m incredibly blessed when it comes to my parents, who have provided me with financial security duringthis time. I insisted on finding a job, but they insisted on me dedicating all my time to healing.
When your mom is the CEO of one of the largest makeup companies in the world, it’s both hard to win an argument and to make a dent in her bank account. My dad is a proud trophy husband and was a stay-at-home dad my entire childhood.
I’d be nowhere without my parents, especially right now. I damn sure don’t take that for granted.
I finish my shower and get dressed, a mix of negative emotions weighing down on me. This process is slow—I know because I’ve been told that about a thousand times. But sometimes, it’s really goddamn hard to accept.
As I plop down into my desk chair, I look down at my hand in disgust, hating that it won’t get better and that I won’t be able to play at the same level I used to. I’m so goddamn … mad. All the time. It lives in my veins like a smoldering ember, always ready to ignite.
But unfortunately, this crushing weight on my chest is a part of me now, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to shake it. If anything, it’s heavier than ever when I sign into my Zoom meeting and wait for Lorea to hop on.
Needing to look at anything but myself and my screen, I stare out of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook the city skyline. It’s one thing I never get tired of looking at.
Kyle trots into my makeshift office, water still dripping from the drink he went to get downstairs, and he jumps up on the sofa and snuggles into a cozy blanket.
“Good boy,” I praise him before redirecting my attention to studying the outlines of the buildings—something I’ve spent a lot of time doing.
Too much time wasted … staring at windows, practicing lifting small objects and small weights to strengthen my arm. Somuch time spent, and for what? To drop the shampoo bottle in the shower.
Wow, I’ve made such great progress.
“Good morning to you too, Shay.” Lorea’s sweet voice cuts through my rambling thoughts, and my eyes flash to the screen, finding a sarcastic smile on her lips.
“Sorry,” I mutter, trying to shake off the last few minutes … or years. “Good morning.”
I know she was just teasing. I’m sure I looked quite furious when she logged on. A reminder for next time to keep my camera off until she arrives.
“Don’t apologize. What were you thinking about?” she asks.
I stare dumbfoundedly into the camera because she knowsexactlywhat I was thinking about. It’s the same thing we talk about at every session, like a never-ending cycle. I’m mad at the world … mad that what I’d spent my entire life working toward, sacrificing for, dedicating every goddamn second to was ripped from me in a single blow.
I don’t know hownotto be mad about it. Or how to wake up in the mornings without my first thought being about my injury. I can’t imagine there will ever come a time where this doesn’t consume my mind completely.
“Come on, Shay.” She urges me to say all my rambling thoughts out loud. Although, if she can practically read my mind, I feel like it defeats the purpose.
“I …” I take a breath, louder than intended, before my words whistle through my teeth, each one harder to force through than the last. “I am …frustratedthis morning because my arm failed me, and I want to”—I whip my hands through the air—“wake up from thisnightmare.”
Her shoulders rise with a calm inhale while mine rise with a ragged breath as I try not to spiral into a panic attack, my chest tightening with each thump of my heart.
I expect her to tell me some magical therapist advice, like I’m being too hard on myself or that this is normal to feel. But instead, her next sentence takes me completely by surprise.
“You’re never going to wake up from this nightmare.”
Encouraging.
A laugh slips past my lips, and a nervous grin forms on hers.
