Emotionally Disconnected

"I wish I could be more like you."

His last statement was meant to be a compliment, but it wasn't. It actually hurt her to hear him say it.

Like me? You mean you wish you were emotionally disconnected. You wish you were emotionally unstable? I wish I were like you! Not worried about what people think of you. Not worried about if something you say will come out wrong or create awkward silences.

Fifty-two sessions of post-discharge therapy. Fifty-two sessions of awkward and difficult conversations about people who have hurt you or situations that made you cry. Fifty-two sessions of rehashing the past and she didn't feel any different afterward. She wouldn't tell anyone that, though. Inquiries about how the therapy worked for her all received amazing reviews. She went so far as to put 'Life-changing' on one mail-in survey from the mental health clinic. She wouldn't wish this emptiness on her worst enemy.

She helped him finish putting the chairs on top of tables and locked the door after the two of them stepped outside. It was raining lightly, more of a mist, as they stepped out from under the awning. He put up his hood and pulled his coat tight as he walked away, offering a quiet but pleasant "See you tomorrow!" She dug her keys out of her pocket and got in her Jeep.

She got lost in her thoughts too often, overthinking every word, every syllable. Wondering how she could have responded differently. It was worst in the car. She would get so lost in her thoughts that when she got home she almost wouldn't remember driving. Sometimes it scared her.

Her thoughts continued rambling in her head as she turned the key in the ignition. Her thoughts circled around the same ideas every time she got in the car. Part of her would almost wish that she would get into an accident, one just bad enough to make her feel something. Instantly, every other part of her would be horrified, terrified even, that a thought like that would actually have the audacity to exist.

Every song reminded her of some situation or person. Most songs reminded her of something she would prefer to forget. Then there were some songs that reminded her of pleasant memories, and sometimes, when she was too busy remembering something nice, she'd catch herself smiling involuntarily. She never knew how to keep the smile for more than a few seconds.

She thought of her conversation at the coffee house. It was short, but obviously had an impact on her. It began raining harder, almost as if some supernatural force were telling her how she should feel. She turned on the windshield wipers as the rain beat down in a rhythmic melody. In almost any other circumstance, she would find the rhythm of the rain relaxing.

She couldn't help but continue thinking about her time on the ship. She realized that was closest to the last time she had actually felt something. As she thought of it, she could hear their voices as if they were sitting in the car with her. All of the emotions she could remember feeling as she lay curled in a ball in her bed came rushing back. Her eyes welled up with tears and within a moment began falling, almost as fast as the rain hitting her windshield.

She pulled over to the shoulder and turned off the car. Between the rain and her tears, it was too hard for her to stay focused on the road. She gripped the top of the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white. The rain beat down on the car, making everything outside of the car invisible. She tried to stop her tears.

"Stop it!" she yelled at herself, angry that she was losing control.

She remembered how she felt back then because she could still feel it. The isolation, the loneliness, the depression, the helplessness, all came flooding back like a dam crumbling and releasing all of its water. She punched the steering wheel as she let out an angry grunt. She punched the steering wheel three more times before finally collapsing onto it. Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed.

"You're a waste of space and you'll always be worthless."

She could hear it as if it were whispered right into her ear. She winced at the words. It cut her as much as it had the first time she heard it all those years ago.

She hated feeling this.

She hated feeling.

She hated it because of the gut wrenching inadequacy she felt that always seemed to accompany it. She hated being vulnerable and giving other people this power to make her feel these emotions. She felt small and weak. She just wanted to have control over her mind and her thoughts and she knew that blocking her emotions was the only way to do that.

"I am not worthless!" she shouted out loud at the voices in her head, wishing she had the courage back then to say something, anything back to them.

Her sobbing subsided but she didn't move. She kept her head down with her arms wrapped up and around, gripping the top of the steering wheel. Her breath was shallow as she tried to slow down her pounding heart. Desperate to get home, she racked her brain for a way to calm down.

Taking a deep breath, she sat back. She closed her eyes and began the meditation she had learned from therapy. With timed breathing and conscious thoughts, she should be able to calm down. She took a breath and held it, counting to eight.

She spoke as she exhaled slowly, "I'm feeling..."

She paused, having trouble finding the right word.

"Sad."

She took another breath and counted.

"And alone, and I just want to feel happy again."

She took another deep breath and realized her voice was now the only one in her head. She opened her eyes and turned the key in the ignition. As she pulled back onto the road, she let out a small chuckle.

Maybe therapy did help.

She knew she couldn't live the rest of her life this way. It was a matter of life and death, because the way she was living was just waiting to die. She knew she couldn't continue having these episodes and pushing everyone away who tried to help. The episodes would only get worse.

Did she still have the number to the mental health clinic that she went to before? She set her mind to the decision that she'd find the number when she got home. Maybe she'd make an appointment for this week. She had to.

She saw a green light ahead and she smiled a tiny bit. Maybe that was a sign, a literal green light to give her the metaphorical approval for her decision to get help. She was so lost in her thoughts that she was unaware of the big red SUV coming up to the intersection from the left that didn't appear to be slowing down to stop at their red light. She didn't consider she was in danger until she was blinded by the headlights and had no time to react to the fear she felt as she sensed the jolt of the collision.