Page 56 of Firefly Embers

Around the room, every face told a story. We had veterans, assault survivors, first responders, and then there was me—the lowly cowboy who’d been shot in a freak accident.

Most days, I struggled with feeling like I wasn’t truly damaged enough to be here. That was a harrowing thought in itself. How did you judge someone else’s pain and say yours doesn’t match up?

I took one of the empty seats, leaning back in the folding chair and crossing my legs at the ankles in front of me.

The group therapist, Leslie, took a seat directly opposite the circle from where I was sitting and smiled at each and every one of us individually.

Even though we were here as individuals, there was a strong focus on camaraderie and finding common threads among our traumas. It had been preached to us that creating a support system was key to managing expectations for continued healing back in the real world.

Each group session rotated weeks and times, so you got to meet and hear from residents of varying walks of life. The group was never the same, but the emotional damage each ‌of us carried with us was always a common thread.

“Hey, y’all!” Leslie remarked cheerfully. She was a petite, late-thirties, soccer-mom-vibe type of woman who, in my opinion, talked way too animatedly for a group therapist focusing on trauma and PTSD.

A mumbled greeting came from around the circle as each ‌of us readied ourselves for the onslaught of sharing we were about to do.

Leslie didn’t bother recording our group sessions. This wasn’t something that was going to be analyzed by our individual therapists later.

Group therapy was solely focused on sharing your heaviness with those around you who may or may not have similar stories, but who had been through similar emotions.

“Would anyone like to start us off today?” she asked, looking from one person to the next, willing someone to speak up. No one seemed to take the bait, and the echo of silence in the room was deafening.

Who really wanted to be the first person to trauma dump all over their peers in group therapy? Not me.

“Wade!”

Fuck.

I looked up from beneath the brim of my hat, not having bothered to take it off. I had honestly hoped that I would get away from sharing unscathed and catch a quick power nap during the session.

Leslie looked back at me with a huge smile, pleading with her eyes for me to share something with the group.

“Um, hi, I’m Wade, and I’m emotionally damaged?”

A chuckle echoed through the room as all the residents loosened up a bit.

Leslie laughed loudly, shaking her head as if I were the most hilarious person she’d met. Something about her zest for life and her relentless happiness helped me relax a bit.

“Funny! You’re funny, Wade,” she chuckled. “If you don’t mind, we’d love to hear a little bit about why you’re here with us at ERRC.”

This was the part I hated. I hated the constant need to relive the incident over and over again.

Dr. Langford had drilled into me since my first session that repressing the trauma surrounding the shooting and acting like it never happened didn’t make it go away.

I needed to face the fact that it happened; it changed my life, and I was going to grow and move forward from it.

Clearing my throat and sitting up straighter in my seat, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

“My name’s Wade. I’m here at ERRC because I was shot in the back after helping rescue my now sister-in-law from drug dealers who were threatening to kill her daughter. I struggle with PTSD because of the incident and the subsequent loss of my ability to ride horses. I am a retired rodeo cowboy, so that pill was hard to swallow.”

The room was silent as everyone nodded their heads and listened with rapt attention as if my story was the most riveting part of their week.

“I decided that I needed to make an effort to deal with what happened to me so I can move forward with my life. I’ve got a girl back home who has seen all the good and broken parts of me, yet somehow still loves me. She deserves to get the best version of me.”

“And?” Leslie prodded. I knew what she was hinting at, and I hated saying it. It sounded selfish, but I knew it was a pivotal part of my healing journey.

“And, I want to be the best version of myself because I deserve it.”

“Very good, Wade,” the therapist commended. “One last thing before we move on, I want you to take a second and reflect on your trauma. Can you tell me one good thing to come out of it?”