Page 24 of Breathe Again

Whatever else he said was lost to me in that moment. Buried by an avalanche of shame, I turned my face away. My eyes welled with tears and heat suffused my face, I couldn’t look at him.

“This is difficult for you to hear. There is help. And I believe you will do well.”

Fuck me but the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. More like your mother than you’d ever want to be. Personality disorder. Unworthy. Burden. A weeping boil on their lives.

“You need counseling, and not just for a little while, but for a long time. Ongoing.”

“Borderline Personality?” I whispered.

“Issues,” he stressed. “Issues with identity, moods, look it up when you get home. See what you think.”

I was reeling, arms wrapped tight around my waist, protecting myself, but I was too late. I was eviscerated, and he could see everything.

“You’ll do well Mara. You’re strong and determined.”

I turned my face to look at him. His face softened further.

“You’re full of pain, aren't you?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I can see it in your eyes. You’ve been in pain for a long time. There is help and you can feel better.”

“Why do I have this?”

“It comes from your family of origin; a history of abuse is common in people who have these issues...” He trailed off. “Are you angry?”

“No,” he showed me kindness. I was a sucker for kindness, so I gave him more. “I am ashamed.”

He dipped his chin. “That’s common, too, with people who have this. There is help. I believe you can feel better. I believe you will do well.”

I wasn’t sure how he wrapped up the appointment. I was positive, though, that he was experienced in shifting shell-shocked people out of his office to usher in the next poor unsuspecting soul. He told me to call the office in the next few days, that he’d get me set up with counseling and started with DBT. I was to see him in a month for an update.

Phrases rolled around my head, ‘family of origin.... borderline personality… look it up and see what you think… sad your whole life…. Do you hurt yourself? … you have moods… identity issues… I see it in your eyes… you’ve been in pain a long time…’

I drove home in a daze.

Willa’s big blue eyes lifted in question as soon as I walked into the house. I told her I was exhausted by all the questions, explained that I had Persistent Depressive Disorder, as it was the lesser of the two evils.

Withheld the rest.

Withheld the shame.

The sea of Olivia’s therapy, homeschooling, depression, confusion, my writing, Zale, my mother, all of it swirled around me, I felt the pull of the current and it was sucking me under. I pushed it all aside, put on my happy face, and focused on visiting with Willa.

When she left I made Olivia a vanilla milk steamer. She cuddled into me on the couch, prattling on about all the pets in Harry Potter, their names, who owned them, and which ones were her favorites. Willa’s visit, and the resulting chat about the animals in the shelter, had triggered a renewed interest in the fantastic beasts of the Harry Potter world. So, of course, we put on Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and she sat and watched, enthralled once again with the action unfolding on the tv, while I stared straight ahead, unseeing, my attention directed inward.

When Zale came home I said nothing of my appointment.

I felt desperately sorry for him.

Desperately unworthy.

I wished he would just leave.

A Burning Building

Mara

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