First responder, second love

Chapter 25

So, I'm talking again, what made everyone a lot less worried about me. They were ready to send me away and get me submitted to a psychiatric institute. Suddenly, all seems fine, but is it really? I mean, I'm still not okay. I have no idea how to talk about what happened to me. Do I even want to talk about it? If I'm being honest, I would tell you that I want to just forget about it all. I want to lock all those memories and feelings up so no one can get to them. Yes, I know that doesn't work and that it's not the right way to go. But if anyone asks me how I feel one more time, I'm going to hit them. To be honest, I felt like hitting my therapist a couple of times. Sure, I won't actually do that, but I'm still allowed to feel like it. Like, I'm still allowed to not be okay. I want to be. I want to be okay; I want to be myself again; I want to be happy and in love with Evan. I want to go back to work, working my ass off next to Karev. Can I go back to all that—to myself and my life? The life I worked so hard to make and keep.

After Ben died, I was ready to give up and leave it all behind, but now I don't feel like that. Yes, I am not the same anymore, and I may never be again, but that doesn't mean I have to give up. I want to fight for my life and for my own happiness; I just don't know how. I need someone to show me the way, to hold my hand, and to tell me everything will be okay again, that I will be okay again. Only this time, I don't think Evan's hand is enough.
    "I would like to come back to your question from our last session, if you don't mind."
    "Yeah, sure."
    "I may have found a place where they can give you the help you need, and are asking for," the woman, sitting in the armchair across from me, speaks. After I started talking, I immediately asked for a different therapist; the one I went to before wasn't qualified to help me with a trauma this extreme. And even though I do talk to her and I feel comfortable, I still feel like I need more. That's what I talked to her about last time, and that's exactly what she was thinking. I have trouble opening up to her or to anyone. I have trouble sleeping, being alone, and just trying to move on with my life. I have panic attacks more than I want to admit. I even think of hurting myself sometimes. And it doesn't feel fair to burden my friends with all that, to let them babysit me, because I don't think they can handle all that. It's hard on them too, and I know they're my friends, and they love me. But I see how they really feel when they say they want to take care of me. They don't know how to help.
    "Do you still agree? Do you still feel this is a good idea?" I ask my therapist.
    "Do you Samantha? That's what really matters," she answers.
    "I want to get better; at least I think I do. Sometimes I don't know if I even want to go on living, and that scares me," I tell her.
    "Why does that scare you, Samantha?"
    "Because than he wins," I answer while my voice is breaking a little.
    "Who wins?"
    "He wanted me dead, so if I kill myself, I give him exactly what he wants," I tell her while a tear rolls down my cheek. "I can't let him win; he doesn't deserve that."
    "Samantha, he is no longer; he got shot by a police officer, and died at the scene. He is dead, Samantha; please don't forget that."
    "So, does that make everything fine? My rapist is dead, so I need to move on." I speak louder and irritated.
    "That's not what I'm saying, Samantha."
    "What are you saying? I need to be a big girl and get rid of my trauma."
    "I just want you to remember that the man who hurt you is gone and can't hurt you anymore."
    "My abductor is still living is life," I immediately react.
    "In prison, Samantha, he can't get to you."
    "Somehow that doesn't make me feel safer."
    "I understand. Sometimes it takes time to trust people again. Trust that you can feel save again."
    "So, what do I need to do to get there again?"
    "Give yourself time and take all the help you need. And remember that you're not weak for feeling like this. You got hurt; someone hurt you, and that's not your fault." I nod my head and try to keep the tears back, because I don't feel like crying in front of her.

After therapy, I walk to the elevator and get on it. The door closes behind me, and I'm all alone. I look at myself in the mirror, but somehow, I don't recognize the person I see. I see the pain in her eyes, a scar on her neck, and a smile that doesn't want to be seen. How do I get back to that person who was excited to go to work every day, who loved spending time with her friends, and who longed to get kissed by firefighter Buckley. Now when I think about all those things, I get nervous, overwhelmed and scared. I'm trying hard to keep the tears behind the walls.
    "Not in public," I say to myself, and I make two fists. Suddenly, the doors open, and I see I arrived at the ground floor. I step out of the elevator, and walk to the entrance.