Just Us

Seven

Chapter seven
Isla

Isaiah insisted on driving me to go see Dr. Pimento since he had a day off from work. I told him it wasn't necessary but he drove me anyway. He knew I dreaded seeing him so he wanted to take the edge off a little and he did help.

            I can't remember laughing so hard in the past few months. Isaiah's singing— and butchering—the song by George Michael, Careless Whisper. I tell him to stop but he keeps going till we're in front of the office building.

            I get out, "you're such a loser!" I yell as he's trying his best to sing in the dorkiest fashion. An imaginary mic in his hand and everything.

            A voice calls out to me and it's Corey. I'll be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to meeting him but the same can't be said for Chance who barely acknowledges me.

            I try not to take it to heart because I'm aware. I don't want Corey feeling bad about this either so when he apologises, I brush it off, telling him it's okay because it really was. He doesn't look any better though, the look of guilt still ridden across his features.

            Before I could say anything further, he's driving off.

            "Wow," Isaiah sighs, feeling the tension from our shoulders dissipate. "Okay, you head in there. I'll wait out here." He says, knowing how I feel about people following me into an appointment.

            I walk in alone and the session with Dr. Pimento goes by painfully slow. There wasn't much progress but he said there was. I'm not sure if he's just trying to make me feel better or if I had told him something I wasn't even aware of.

            He brings up pills at the end of the session and I say I don't want any. I didn't like being medicated. I've read things about it and I just think it wasn't for me. He said that was fine but told me that medication could help. I refuse once more and with that the session ends.

            I get back in the car with my brother and it's a complete contrast from just now. I thought sessions were supposed to make me feel better but all they did was remind me of everything that happened and left me shaken for the rest of the day.

            We drive home in silence and as I enter the house, there's more silence. I go up to my room, dropping onto the bed and I don't even realise I'm crying until my bedsheets start getting damp.

            I hated this. I hated not having control over my own body or emotions. I didn't want to cry. I didn't even know why I was crying. I was told that being triggered was a confusing thing. It could last minutes, days or weeks and sometimes it's subconscious.

            Nothing was determinative. Nothing was final. There wasn't a straight path to getting better either. There was no, do one thing, get the result later.

            Everyone reacted differently and no one person reacts the same so hearing about people getting better in months didn't make me feel better. Some people took years and some others who never recovered.

            It was all subjective. What if I never recovered? What if my brain's permanently altered?

            The tears are still flowing as my thoughts go haywire and then there's a knock on my door. My hands fly to my face, wiping any evidence of an emotional breakdown. My father pokes his head in. I don't know if he noticed my tear-stained cheeks, but if he did, he doesn't mention it.

            "Hey, sweetie." He calls out in a calm and soothing tone which makes me feel like he did notice the tears.

            I wait in silence, not sure why he's in my room. "I just wanted you to see the garage. If you liked how the art studio's turning out." He says and I smile.