Page 52 of Firefly Embers

At the end of each day, I crawled into bed, closed my eyes, and crashed. There were no nightmares, no thoughts of the past, just a void of darkness and an overwhelming sense of calm.

The first couple of days after arriving at the treatment center were rough. Settling into a new environment had exacerbated my nightmares, often leaving me gasping for air as I fought for each ragged inhale of breath.

Thankfully, the in-house psychiatrist had offered relief in the form of some sleeping pills to get me through the worst of it.

I fought tooth and nail against taking any sort of meds, but after talking with the therapist in individual sessions, she encouraged me to use them as a stepping stone, not a crutch, to which I’d reluctantly agreed.

After the first night of getting a full ten hours of sleep, I decided to only use them temporarily. As my therapist would say, “We’re here to create good habits and coping mechanisms, not to create bad habits as a way of brushing off the things we need to deal with.”

Each day at the center, we alternated between group and individual therapy in the morning, and a therapy-based extracurricular in the afternoons.

We weren’t bound to a schedule, but for the duration of our stay, it was highly encouraged for us to focus on the suggestions of our therapy team and the assets provided. Keeping a strict schedule was something I was intimately familiar with, so I had no reservations about working within those constraints.

I was signed up for individual therapy and dreading every single moment as the clock ticked by. My therapist, Dr. Langford, was a kind woman—but her idea of healing involved what I could only constitute as psychological torture.

Locking the door to my room behind me, I walked down the long corridor to the wing where the offices were. I passed by other residents’ rooms; people were milling about, chatting in between therapy sessions.

The interior of the center reminded me of its own little town. Each resident had their own apartment of sorts, and there were common areas for food, entertainment, and socializing.

Therapists’ offices and conference rooms were kept sequestered to one wing of the center, maintaining the appearance of a nonclinical atmosphere.

I had learned that each therapist focused on only three clients at a time to ensure everyone was given ample attention to their individual needs. Not only did they work in small numbers, but each therapist was also specifically chosen for each resident based on their expertise and background.

Dr. Langford, who insisted during each and every session that I call her Winnie, had grown up in the area and was highly familiar with the small-town lifestyle.

She had shared with me during our first session that she actually had been born and raised on a small ranch much like ours. We bonded over our love of horses and riding. It made confiding in her easier, knowing that she was able to correlate some of the daily stressors with experience.

She pushed me to join ‌the equine therapy extracurricular as a way to push past mental barriers I’d put up around riding. Even though I couldn’t ride, it was comforting to be around a ranch-like atmosphere.

Each day, I went out and mucked stalls, tacked up horses for riders, and washed them down when they came back in.

It was nice to feel needed and have something to keep my hands from sitting idle, but I struggled to see how it correlated to my healing. It often felt like a slap in the face to be so close but unable to ride.

I rapped on Dr. Langford’s door, and a soft “come in” echoed from behind the wood. I turned the knob and removed my hat, setting it upside down on the table beside the entrance.

“Mornin’, ma’am.” Some habits were hard to break, and this was one I would take to my grave. Calling a woman ma’am, even if they weren’t much your senior, was a sign of respect, and I wasn’t going to give it up, no matter how formal it sounded.

“Good morning, Wade,” she said with a smile.

Dr. Langford was a middle-aged woman with a warm personality and a gentle, motherly soul. Her wardrobe consisted of items that reminded me of the seventies. All long, layered pieces that swished when she walked, and rings on each finger. Her long blonde hair, graying at the temples, was always in a braid, draped over one shoulder. She was eclectic, but never off-putting.

As I walked into the room and took a seat across from her on the worn leather couch, she lowered her reading glasses that hung around her neck on a beaded string.

I noticed the soft laugh lines that webbed beside her eyes, crinkling with each soft smile. They reminded me of Pops and the way he’d earned every single one with a hard-fought smile and a welcome laugh.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked, her signature notebook seated in her lap. The small leather-bound book was where she kept all the important information on each of her clients.

From what some of the other residents had mentioned, it seemed like she was the only one who still hand-wrote her notes. Most of the other therapists had moved over to recording sessions and transcribing them after the fact.

I liked the fact that she was a little old-school, as I wasn’t huge on technology myself.

“Better than yesterday,” I sighed.

Each day that we had individual sessions, she asked me to focus on one thing that was better between sessions. So far, they had been minor, like not forgetting to get dessert at the cafeteria or making the acquaintance of another resident.

I hadn’t felt much of a breakthrough toward healing, but I knew that the process wasn’t simple or linear. I just needed to be patient and trust in myself and my therapists to help me get back to a place where I could see the light again.

“That’s great. You had your appointment with the doctor yesterday, correct?”