Psychotic Disaster

Chapter 8

My heart still aches, and I hate to admit it.

I thought I was healed but I realized I was just ignoring my feelings not because I'm scared, but because I am so tired of dealing with them. My traumas.

The heavy burdens of my patients, and my unresolved issues all swirled in my mind like a storm.

After locking up the clinic, I felt an overwhelming need to confront the shadows of my past, a past I had buried deep within myself.

Pursuing this career is fulfilling, until you could no longer have conversations without over analyzing people by the way they act, the way they speak their minds, the way their eyes move, and etc. 

Psychology is a skill that you can learn that's hard to unlearn, because the knowledge you've acquired is already digested in your brain.  If you take this career path, there's going back.

Instead of going home to my apartment, I drove myself to the city where the house I grew up in still stood. 

It was now abandoned, a decaying relic of a time I desperately wanted to forget but knew I needed to face, especially at this point because I know that I get triggered in every story my patients share.

I don't want to pretend anymore that I'm healed when the truth is I'm also like them, still feeling the fresh bruises my childhood carved in my skin as my flesh bleeds like a river, flowing. 

I parked my car on the overgrown gravel driveway, I hesitated for a moment before stepping outside. The night was eerily quiet, the air hues heavy with memories.

The house loomed in front of me, its once has a bright facade now weathered and dark. Each creak of the floorboards as I walked up the porch steps felt like a whisper from the past, urging me to remember. 

With trembling hands, I pushed open the front door, which groaned in protest.

Stepping inside, the familiar smell of dust and decay hit me. The living room, once filled with laughter and light, was now a desolate space. Broken furniture lay scattered, and the walls were stained with neglect. 

I walked slowly, my footsteps echoing in the empty house, each step taking me deeper into my memories.

Flashbacks were starting to collide in my mind as I saw the old dusty couch.

I used to hide behind that couch as my parents argued in the kitchen. Their voices were sharp, cutting through the air like knives. My father's booming voice was filled with anger, while my mother was strained with desperation. 

I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible, hoping they wouldn't see me.

"Morgan, go to your room!" my mother had yelled, noticing me peeking out. I had scrambled to my feet and ran upstairs, my heart pounding with fear. 

I had hidden under my bed, covering my ears to block out the sounds of their fight. But no matter how tightly I pressed my hands against my ears, I could still hear the shouting, the breaking of dishes, and my mother's sobs. 

"I thought it was an argument out of love. Perhaps, I never knew what truly love is..." I whispered to myself.

The memory was so vivid that I could almost feel the rough carpet against my skin. I stood where I used to be my room, now empty and cold. The walls, once covered in posters and drawings, were now faded and the paint were peeling off in strips. 

I closed my eyes, trying to push away the memories, but they came rushing back, relentless and unforgiving.

The years that followed were a blur of fear and confusion. My father's anger was a constant presence in our lives, an unpredictable storm that could erupt at any moment. He would come home late, reeking of alcohol, and any small thing could set him off.