Fragmented ✔️

9. Scorched envelopes

In the days that followed my first group meeting, I tried to make sense of each of the steps Helen gave us. One stood out the most: distraction.

I paced the kitchen, reciting her words, my hands raking through my hair. Distraction. What could I do differently to keep my mind off everything that was weighing me down? My laptop called out as it lay open on the breakfast bar.

I typed a few keywords into the search engine and my eyes glazed over at all the results. I read through each one until I couldn't focus any longer. My eyes stung from the low kitchen lighting and the glare of the screen. I rubbed at them and huffed, leaning back in my chair.

"Oh, that's a loud huff. What are you doing up so early?" My dad strolled into the room, wearing his navy blue dressing gown and slippers. "Coffee?"

Standing as response to his question, I grabbed two mugs while my dad placed a heaped spoon of coffee grounds into the cafetiere and flicked the kettle on.

"I can't get my head around the advice from the counsellor mum sent me to see." His cheek scratched from his stubble when I kissed him. "Morning, dad."

"Morning, kiddo." He slipped his arm around my back and squeezed. "You could have slept for another hour before doing that."

"I was just laying there and my legs were restless. I had to get up and stretch them." Returning to my laptop, I clicked through another article. "Look at this one? Helen suggested we find distractions before any milestone relating to a death. But I can't see any of these helping. Gardening, yoga, walking?" I needed less time alone with my thoughts.

My dad peered over my shoulder. "Give them a chance and then make your mind up. It will probably surprise you. They are popular options for a reason. I could even do some with you. Look further down that list. Reading, exercise–" he nudged me out of the way and scrolled further down the page–  "cleaning. Now I like the sound of that one," he laughed.

"Mmm, not my idea of fun. I want to feel again, get my heart pumping." I failed to mention that whatever I did needed to block my memories of Saffron.

"Exercise then."

"No, I need more." I gnawed on the inside of my cheek as I tried to figure out what that could be.

"Talking about counselling. Can you talk to your mother? She thinks you're upset with her. Tell her it wasn't that bad," he said as he tilted his head to the side and gripped my shoulders to turn me to him. It never took me much to get caught up in my internal battles and this was his way of making sure I would focus on his words.

"It's not that I am upset." I looked away and rubbed my arm, feeling my scar under my fingertips. "But she has to realise, she can't keep going behind my back with Dr Westcott."

"I know, kiddo. She only worries about you. She means well. Talk to her." My dad walked over to the kettle, poured the now boiled water into the pot and placed the lid over it.

Twenty-three and he would probably call me kiddo even if I was in my forties.

I pulled the bread out and popped a couple of slices into the toaster. "Toast?"

We moved around the kitchen helping each other make breakfast while Mum stayed in bed.

***

Halfway through my second round of jam on toast, an idea came to me. "I have to go. See you later." I bit down into the bread, balancing the slice in my mouth, snatched my laptop up and continued eating as I left the room, never giving my father time to ask why I was in such a hurry.

Once in my bedroom, I pulled up an article about extreme activities helping in some cases of anxiety and depression. Photos of cliff diving, whitewater rafting and bungee jumping off bridges rolled across the top of the screen. My pulse quickened as I realised I was probably on to something. All I needed was to find somewhere close by to do them.