PTSD part 3

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PTSD (3)

I opened my eyes and realized that I was in a foreign space.

This wasn't my room.

Did I faint and hit my head on the edge of the bed and die? Was this heaven? Where the hell am I? I wondered as I sat up on the bed.

I was still trying to make sense of everything when I realized what I was wearing: an oversized souvenir, I LOVE NEW YORK, tee shirt.

"What's happening?" I asked and realized that my mouth was as dry as the shirt I had on.

"You're awake!" I turned around to find Elvis, my boss rocking a SpongeBob and Patrick pajamas set. It was surreal and if I wasn't wondering what the hell was happening I would have—wait a minute! It started coming back to me. The phone call...the panic attacks... 'OMIGOD! OMIGOD! OMIGOD!'

"Hey, hey, hey...it's fine," he was already next to me on the bed trying to force me to place my head on his shoulder like I was his little sister.

How bad was it? I wondered as blurry memories began to get clearer.

"What are you doing?" I heard myself ask in confusion and he took a minute to process my question before ending the pathetic show of care.

"I'm sorry...I just thought you were going to have another—,"

"Mental display?"

"Alright, there's no need to act all rude and all, I've been the one spending hours trying to keep you safe and sound you know?"

"I didn't beg you to!" I raised my voice.

"Okay, okay... calm down, relax...will you have tea or something? I'm trying to whip up something in the—,"

"Honestly, I just want to go home and never see the break of day again," I said as memories of my Valentine's Day experience 4 years ago coursed through my brain. That was my first panic attack—at least the first one I realized and I remember how everyone kept laughing at me at the cafeteria—especially the ones I called friends and the idiot I called a boyfriend.

"You don't really mean that."

I looked at him for a couple of seconds before shaking my head with a long his afterward.
"Me that did it for years," I added.

"Yeah, I know—but you're getting older now, Shaniqua, you need to face whatever gets you down bad like this psychologically instead of always running away from it."

I felt my body rise in anger.

"You can't understand...you will never understand, so, please just..." I shook my head and sighed.

"I understand—that I'll never understand, I'm just suggesting that you seek professional help is all I'm saying—,"

"Or you'll fire me?"

"Woah! Woah! Where did that come from?" He made a pause sign with his hand that made him look absolutely cute—especially with the pajamas he had on.

I couldn't help it, I smiled.

"What's funny?" It was his turn to move his eyes left and right like one of those Owl-designed alarm clocks in horror movies.

"It's the...it's the pajamas," I confessed and watched as he sized himself down for a second before scoffing in what erupted as laughter.

"I didn't even know I had it on—it's one of those things that the fear of armed robbers can do to you."

I waited for a second to feel triggered by the words, "armed robbers", maybe a rapid heartbeat or mental paralysis, but nothing came. This was the first time.

"Are you good?" He asked with concern written all over his face.

"Nothing happened..." I faltered and he had a look of confusion on his face.

"What?"

"Nothing happened. You mentioned the words,  'armed robbers' and I didn't...I didn't panic," I covered my mouth with my folded fist. Only one man could keep me calm during my panic attacks: my father. This almost felt surreal, like a miracle.

"Uh...it's a good thing, I guess?" He squinted his eyes with uncertainty laced with fear lingering in his voice.

"Of course, it's a good thing! Do you know how many doctors I've tried talking to?"

"Are you serious?" He sat up and made his leg into a yoga position. The rain had started to fall and I could tell that it was already late in the evening. If anyone had told me hours ago that I'd be seated in my boss's house, wearing his faded souvenir shirt and sharing my life experiences with him while he listened to me in a yoga position, I would have said they were crazy.

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Diary of the Crazy Shaniqua Bello Where stories live. Discover now