Part 11 (2/2)
I nodded and watched her disappear into a back room. The soothing sounds of the rainforest dribbled out the sound system, the calming pitter-patter of water pooling and plopping off lush, tropical leaves, splas.h.i.+ng into giant puddles, the delicate sound of thunder crackling in the distance. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the air filling my lungs. Inhale into my mouth, expel through my nose. Rinse, lather, repeat. Concentrate on solid blocks of color. Don't think. Blue. Black. Dark forest green. Gray is good too. I pa.s.sed out.
I doubt more than five minutes ticked by, but I got a better night's sleep in that short time than I had in the entire six hours at Charlie's.
Dr. Shapiro-Weiss stood over me, calling my name, pulling me back from the brink.
Inside her office, the doctor sat in her cus.h.i.+oned, wicker chair, waiting while I got comfortable on the couch, rearranging throw pillows and trying to figure out where to begin. The diplomas and accomplishments on her wall distracted, overwhelmed me. Degrees, awards, commendations. From all over the country. Prestigious inst.i.tutions, framed and centered, fancy gold-leaf lettering. What was I doing with my life? To attain this level of success, she had to start studying at an early age. Right out of high school, straight to college, then to university and grad school, post-grad and doctoral work. No time for parties or f.u.c.king around, no time for dragging heels, protesting growing up. Not if you want to be somebody in the world. That's how Stephen had become a financial advisor, or whatever the f.u.c.k he did. Unless Daddy got him the gig. The only skills I possessed: digging ditches and loading a truck. Grunt labor a trained monkey could do. I didn't belong here.
”Jay?”
”I'm sorry.” I started to stand. ”This was a mistake. I shouldn't have bothered you.”
She gestured for me to sit down.
”Have you been having more panic attacks?”
”I don't know. I think so.”
”Why didn't you call me sooner? You must've run out of medication a while ago.”
”I don't want to be some pill popper who takes drugs every time he's in a bad mood.”
”You have a condition.”
”I don't have a condition.”
”You have an anxiety disorder. You can call it something else if you'd like. There's no disgrace in receiving treatment when something beyond your control is affecting the quality of life.” She waited for that to sink in. ”How is your relations.h.i.+p with your wife? Your job? Friends.h.i.+ps?”
”I don't have a lot of friends.”
”When people with anxiety disorders experience prolonged episodes, it makes thinking rationally difficult, impossible. The skills they've relied on their entire lives short circuit. They behave irrationally. Which can push away those they love. This compounds feelings of isolation. A 'fight or flight' hyperawareness kicks in, and everything becomes dire.”
”Dire? You mean like when you're on a mountaintop, and someone is trying to kill you and your brother? You mean dire like that?” The sarcasm didn't come out as cutting as I intended.
”Yes,” the doctor said. ”Like that. Unfortunately, Jay, because of what you went through, what you saw, what you experienced the last few days of your brother's life, you are still trapped there in many ways. This feeling of being trapped is what causes you to panic. There are medications that can quell the worst of it. Now if you want to try a different type of medication-”
”I don't like taking drugs.”
”How much have you been drinking?”
”I'm not an alcoholic.”
”I'm guessing more than a few beers every night, though, right? Self-medicating is still medicating. Why were you waiting on my front steps this morning?”
”I didn't know where else to go.”
”Has something changed? A new development that brought on these attacks?”
I let it all pour out-the Olisky case, Brian and his dead drug-addict brother, the fight with Jenny, my wife taking urgent action to visit her mother in Burlington in the middle of the night and bringing my son along for the ride, the yuppie neighbor, Stephen, the clerk at the courthouse, Nicki, North River, and Judge Roberts' dubious record. And of course I invoked the sins of the Lombardis, whose crimes I couldn't accept had gone unpunished, even in death.
”No wonder you're having panic attacks,” Dr. Shapiro-Weiss said. ”Those events you've described are a microcosm of what you experienced last year. It would be like a Desert Storm veteran suddenly finding himself back on a battlefield.” Before I could protest how ridiculous a comparison, she held up her hand. ”No, you're not in the Army, and I am not undermining what real soldiers go through. What I mean is, both cases can trigger the PTSD.”
”You think I have post-traumatic stress disorder?” I wanted to laugh. Only I couldn't.
”Jay, I want you to stop qualifying your anguish. What you experience is unique to you. You don't need to gauge your feelings and pit them against how much someone else suffers. Personal pain is just that: personal. And, yes, what you went through with your brother last year, and even before that-losing your parents, having to a.s.sume the role of caretaker at such a young age-all these events are traumas.” She set down her pad and pen and leaned in. ”None of this makes you weak. I know that is what you think. But it is not true. I've had ex-NFL players sitting in that chair, six foot five, three hundred and fifty pounds, sobbing because they watched their dad hit their mommy when they were small boys and couldn't do anything about it. I've had police officers who thrust themselves in to do-or-die situations every day, putting their very lives on the line, because once upon a time they couldn't save a sister or a friend and this is their penance. These are strong people. Trapped in a h.e.l.l of their own making because of events beyond their control.”
”Big difference when you're a kid and can't fix a problem. I'm thirty-one years old.”
”Which is why I used the soldier a.n.a.logy. Trauma is trauma. Effects can be c.u.mulative. You've reached a tipping point. Whatever happened at work and in your personal life has dredged up memories and emotions you've kept buried for a long time. You ignored them, and now feel like you should be able to fix everything if you can only do a better job, control outside circ.u.mstance more.” The doctor positioned her hands, miming stranglehold. ”But you can't. This isn't about willpower. This isn't about toughness or resolve. This isn't about skill sets. This war raging inside you is about reconciliation. Learning to accept the past, make peace with your loss. Your brother's habit was his problem. From everything you've told me, you did everything you could to save him. This is the hard part for someone like you to understand. And by 'someone like you,' I mean someone who is strong, someone who is resilient, someone who is used to fighting the fight on his own. Recognizing that you can't do it alone is not a sign of weakness.” Dr. Shapiro-Weiss paused for emphasis. ”It is a sign of strength.”
The doctor sent me off with a new script for lorazepam, an antianxiety pill, which I filled at the pharmacy on the way home, feeling self-conscious and judged when the pharmacist asked for an ID because it's ”a controlled substance.” Walking back to my truck, even before I stuck one under my tongue, I felt better. I remembered Chris once telling me how the only time he felt like himself anymore was right after he'd copped, when he could pat the dope in his pocket. Didn't even need to fix. The real relief came knowing he had the drugs. I'd never understood what he meant before.
I tried to appreciate what Dr. Shapiro-Weiss had said, about how there was a difference between a doctor prescribing medication for a patient and a junkie shooting dope to get high-about how the strong sometimes need help; every tragedy wasn't my fault. I wanted to believe these things but had a tough time. I stopped at the grocery store for another twelve-pack, just in case.
When I unlocked the front door to the house, I could tell Jenny wasn't back. Didn't matter that I didn't see her car in the driveway or that all the lights were off, the rooms silent. I could feel the emptiness, the loneliness. It cut like a hot knife through the gut of a dead deer.
I stripped off my clothes and hit the shower, cranking the heat, steaming the bathroom. I turned the water as scalding as I could stand, as if I could flay the ugly parts away. Two hands planted on the tile, I let it rain over me for a long time.
When I stepped out, I was ready to curl up in bed and pa.s.s the f.u.c.k out. Then I heard Jenny's voice.
”Jay, you here?”
I slung the towel around my waist and rushed into the kitchen, sopping wet, slopping footprints in the thick carpet and across the hardwood floor. I was so glad she was home. Everything that had been wrong in my world would be set right. In seconds I'd see my son, my family would be back together, and I could set about rea.s.sembling the janky parts that had spilled inside me. All I needed was that opportunity.
Except it wasn't Jenny.
”Sorry,” Nicki said, pointing at the door. ”It was unlocked. I saw your truck . . .”
”Do you ever think of calling first?”
”I didn't think you'd pick up if you saw my number.”
”So instead you just walk into my house?”
She stifled a giggle.
”What's so funny?”
”Looks like someone's been hitting the gym.”
I realized I was standing there half naked.
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