Page 14 of Edge of Unbroken

It's also the first thing I bring up to her today.

“When can I talk to Cat?” I ask the moment Doctor Seivert logs on to our virtual therapy session this afternoon. Because Doctor Seivert is in New York and I’m obviously not, I’ve been attending sessions with her virtually, being granted access to my laptop for the twice-weekly two-hour-long sessions so I can sit on my bed and stare at my screen, pretending to feel better about my life, pretending to be healing.

“How are you doing with the grounding techniques we’ve been working on?” Doctor Seivert asks me in return.

“Fine,” I say instinctively. It’s my go-to response. And it’s also a complete lie. Doctor Seivert and I have been working on redirecting my thoughts when I’m about to spiral into a panic attack or anxiety threatens to suffocate me. There’s circular breathing and redirecting my thoughts to become mindful of what’s real to help my body understand that the threat it’s perceiving isn’t real, at least not anymore. The problem is that by the time I recognize what’s happening, I’m already too far gone for breathing to make any difference at all. I usually end up retreating somewhere to sit or lie down, letting the fear wash through me, my heart hammering in my chest, my body hot and sweaty yet freezing cold until it passes.

“Ronan, I can’t help you if you’re not being forthcoming with me.” Doctor Seivert always calls me out on my bullshit. She’s good at what she does, and try as I might, she can always tell when I’m lying.

“Alright, fine. The stuff isn’t working. Not well, at least. Honestly, I’m okay during the day, but I feel like I’m drowning at night,” I confess with a deep sigh.

“That’s because you use avoidance during the day. You’re distracting yourself physically, but the evenings and nights are when things slow down and you’re forced to sit with everything that’s happened to you. Do you want to talk about what goes through your mind when you feel like you’re drowning?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

I look at her, frustrated. “Because I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about my mother; I don’t want to talk about my feelings; I don’t want to tell you how fucked up my life is. I just want to fucking forget it all,” I groan. I get up off my bed and set my laptop down before I begin pacing the room, raking my hands through my hair.

“The thing is, Ronan, that what happened to you happened. It can’t be undone, so you need to work through it and learn to cope in a healthy way.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “I’m not doing anything that isn’t healthy. I’m not a drug addict, I’m not a fucking alcoholic, I don’t go around beating people up for shits and giggles, I don’t have unprotected sex with random people. I always do exactly what everyone else tells me to do. I’m here in Montana, aren’t I? Even though I didn’t want to go. And I’m doing these pathetic therapy sessions when, trust me, it’s the last thing I want. I get up every fucking night to help my grandparents on the ranch. I do my freaking schoolwork without complaining even though all I want is to go to bed and shut it all off. I get up every damn day and do it all over again when, really, all I want is to sleep and not fucking wake up. It’s what I’ve always done. I pushed harder, I worked more, I studied longer because I thought maybe that would make things better, but it. Doesn’t. Fucking. Work. Never has, never will.”

I’ve worked myself up to the point of yelling. “So, no, I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” I shout, pretty damn certain that my grandmother can hear me in the kitchen downstairs.

I continue pacing for another minute while Doctor Seivert stays quiet, giving me an opportunity to calm down.

“Do you drink alcohol, Ronan?” Doctor Seivert asks.

Her question catches me off guard. “Yeah, sure,” I admit without really thinking.

“How often?”

My breathing slows. “I don’t know. Usually when I’m with my friends.” I sit and pick up my laptop.

“So, you only ever drink when your friends are around?”

“No,” I say sheepishly. I think about the times when I snuck some whiskey when I was at home, alone, desperate to numb myself.

“Do you ever drink when you’re by yourself?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“To take the edge off. I don’t do it all the time, just… just when I feel really tense.”

“When was the first time you ever had a drink?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, when I was eleven?”

“Do you ever get drunk?”

I’m seriously struggling to understand where she’s going with this. “Rarely. I don’t like the feeling of losing control.”

“Have you ever tried drugs?”

I don’t respond, swallowing hard. Why does this feel like a trap?

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