Trauma changes people. trauma changes everyone.
All rights for the 9-1-1 cast and all rights to most of the plot goes to ABC. New plots and new characters belong to me 🫶
Book continues in Apparition! 🫶
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I sat in front of my laptop, staring at the screen with a mix of dread and anticipation. The clock ticked closer to my scheduled therapy session, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the air felt thick and suffocating.
When I finally logged in, I saw my therapist, Dr.Hargrove, already waiting in the virtual meeting room, her calm demeanor contrasting sharply with my racing heart. The warm, inviting background of Dr.Hargrove's office felt so distant from the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in my mind.
"Hi, Lydia," Dr. Hargrove greeted with a gentle smile, but it all felt like a spotlight illuminating all of my insecurities. "How are you feeling, today?"
My throat tightened. "I... I don't know," I managed to say. The truth was that I was scared. Scared of admitting I had relapsed again. I'm scared of the judgement I imagined Dad would cast upon me when he found out. I thought about the argument from yesterday, the heat of the moment still fresh in my mind.
**********
THANKSGIVING DAY
The table had been set beautifully, the warm aroma of roasted turkey filling the air. But I felt a weight pressing down on me, a suffocating anxiety that made the thought of food unbearable. Dad, and Chris, had been animatedly talking about the holiday, and when Dad noticed me pushing my plate away, his expression shifted.
"Lyds, you need to eat something," he insisted, concern morphing into his frustration that had been present pretty much all day. "You can't keep doing this. It's like you don't want to get better."
"I'm trying." I snapped, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "You don't understand."
"Trying? It doesn't look like it!" He shot back, his voice rising. Chris's fork fell from his hand as he listened to the argument, tears filling his eyes. "I don't know how to help you if you won't ever help yourself." Dad said.
The words had stung, sharp and painful, and I felt like I was drowning in a sea of tears. "You think I'm not trying?! You think I want to feel like this?"
***********
PRESENT DAY
The memory faded, but the ache it left behind remained, a dull throb in my chest. I had been so angry, so hurt. He didn't understand that it wasn't a choice; it was a battle I fought every single day. And now, here I was, the day after Thanksgiving, sitting in front of my therapist, feeling like a failure.
Dr. Hargrove's voice broke through my thoughts. "Lydia, do you want to talk about what's been going on?"
I hesitated, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my sweater. The weight of yesterday's argument lingered in my mind, and I remembered how Dad had come to me later, his expression softened by exhaustion.
