Page 1 of Centering Kaos

1

Tina

SHIFTING MY TWENTY-YEAR-OLD Mazda into park, I closed my eyes and leaned against the steering wheel. Rain drizzled outside, casting Seattle in its usual sloppy gray haze. Inside, I felt like I was suffocating, treading water as I fought for every breath.

I was familiar with the sensation, having almost drowned when I was six. Memories of that experience came flooding in, thinning the veil between past and present. It happened at the public pool, with a babysitter who was understandably focused on my four-year-old little sister. I couldn’t really swim, but I was an expert at pretending to fit in with the hopes of being accepted. I’d clung to one of the older girls like a lifeline. The sweet, friendly older girl recognized my desperation for companionship and had taken me under her wing. She didn’t ask if I’d taken lessons, and I didn’t volunteer the information. When she and her friends drifted into the deep end, I didn't hesitate. I followed them right out of safety.

No longer able to touch the bottom and literally in over my head, I panicked. Down became up, left became right, and when I opened my mouth to call for help, water rushed in and choked off my cry. I kicked and flailed, coughing and desperate for air. Strength exhausted, lungs on fire, my vision blurred, and my ears rang. I blacked out.

I lived—obviously—but it still scares me that I was so desperate for acceptance I followed my new friend right off the deep end. I almost died that day, and, apparently, I hadn’t learned a thing from it, or I wouldn’t be here. Today’s appointment wouldn’t be necessary.

“Come home, honey. You know you belong with me. Don’t make me kill you.”

I was in over my head again. This time, I was drowning in the memory of my husband’s fingers wrapped around my throat, squeezing the life out of me as he lovingly whispered the ultimatum into my ear. His words caressing my cheek as pain bit into my windpipe. Our relationship hadn’t exactly been built on love, but I never expected it to turn so… lethal. Just thinking about that day made my skin feel too tight and my lungs too small. My heart tried to pound its way out of my chest as this new reality once again settled over me. This was our life now, and it was suffocating me. I struggled to suck down air as darkness clouded the corners of my peripheral…

“Are you taking me to Dad’s?” a young male voice piped up from the backseat, reminding me I wasn't alone. And, I was Mom. Moms weren't allowed to have panic attacks or mental breakdowns. No matter how well-deserved and necessary they were.

Moms weren’t allowed to give up and drown.

Determined to keep treading water, I forced my lungs to finally suck down a breath and unbuckled my seatbelt. It was time to rally. I’d need all the courage I could strum up to get out of the car, and I didn’t have time to fall apart. Not today. “No. I told you, you can't go to Dad’s anymore. He only gets supervised visits, and Melanie isn’t available today.”

Matt had already tried to abduct Dylan, but a brave young lady and her dog had intervened, saving my son and holding Matt until the authorities arrived. They should have locked up my estranged husband and thrown away the key, but he had no prior arrests and had played the concerned dad card like his stellar reputation was riding on the table. Ever since, Matt had stuck to our previous agreement and visits were arranged through Dylan’s social worker, Melanie.

“That's stupid. Dad would never hurt me,” Dylan grumbled.

Ice sliced through my chest. I used to think the same thing, but Matt had proven me wrong. I didn’t know what that man was capable of anymore, and I wouldn't be underestimating him again. “You don't know that,” I snapped without thinking.

Dylan’s shattered expression filled my rearview mirror. I could have kicked myself for my thoughtlessness. I was the adult, and if I couldn't control my reactions, how could I expect my son to? As I watched, hurt bled from hazel eyes that mirrored mine, and his expression morphed into anger. “My dad is a good guy!” he shouted.

According to Dylan’s psychologist, a healthy self-image depended on a child’s views of their parents. I didn’t want my son to ever even think about hitting a woman, so I’d opted out of telling him what his father had done to me. Matt said I fell down the stairs, and I didn’t correct him. Dylan believed his dad hung the moon, and no matter how much it killed me, I refused to be the one who ripped that image apart. I’d kept my derogative comments about Matt to myself for months, but I could already tell this one little slip up was going to cost both me and Dylan greatly.

Beating my head against the steering wheel would only give me a headache, and more bruises, so instead, I apologized. “Of course he is. I’m sorry, Dylan, I was out of line.”

They say apologizing makes you the bigger person. If that was true, I would no longer fit in this car. I’d taken the blame for so much over the years, spewing apologies to keep the peace. I didn’t feel any bigger or more mature. All I felt was tired. Stifling a yawn with the back of my hand, exhaustion enveloped my body and seeped into every muscle and pore, all the way down to my fingernails and hair follicles. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d gotten eight uninterrupted hours of sleep, and I felt it. Hard. My tank was empty and I was riding on fumes. I didn't want to fight with my son. Heck, I didn’t even want to fight with his father. I just wanted peace and quiet, maybe a vacation on an abandoned beach with a fruity adult drink in my hand. Unfortunately, war was on the horizon and I needed allies and resources, which was why I needed to make this appointment.

“Please get out of the car. We can’t be late.” I opened my door, praying Dylan would follow suit. I already felt like the world’s worst mom and had no desire to carry him in, kicking and screaming. In his eyes, I was the bad guy who’d broken up our happy family and was keeping him from his perfect father. Since I couldn’t set the record straight, at least not without revealing graphic details that would traumatize my child and send him to therapy for the rest of his life—not to mention breaking my agreement with Matt—all I could do was brace myself against the backlash.

By the time he unbuckled and climbed out of the car, I’d plastered a smile across my face. I held out my hand for him to take, but he only glared and shoved his hands into his front pockets. My heart stuttered, but my smile didn’t falter. At eight, Dylan had gone through more than any child should. He was angry and hurt. His parents were battling, and his old life had become a casualty. I couldn’t fault him for his emotions. The best I could do was to help him find a more appropriate way to channel them.

Maybe I’d buy him a punching bag.

Come to think of it, I could probably use one of those myself. Never again would I be one, that was for sure.

“It’s this way,” I said, stepping up on the sidewalk.

His footsteps splashed in the puddles behind me. No doubt there’d be mud on the back of my jeans and covering his. Whatever. I’d allow him this small rebellion if it made him feel better. I turned right, watching him out of the corner of my eye to make sure he followed. Dylan hadn’t tried to run away, but he was becoming more sullen and withdrawn by the day. It was probably only a matter of time before he tried to make a run for it.

Great. That was one more worry to plague my nightmares.

Sliding a worn business card out of my pocket, I double checked the name and address of our destination. Having googled the non-profit organization at least a dozen times in the past six months, I had the information memorized. Still, touching the card had become a comfort, a reassurance that I hadn’t exhausted all my options quite yet. Today, I would. Today, I would throw myself at their feet and beg for help if that’s what it took. Shedding the last layers of my dignity with every step forward, I crossed the street and reached the office building with Dylan on my heels. I opened the door for him, and he scowled at me as he marched inside. Keeping my expression neutral—reacting to his hostility only seemed to increase it—I followed him in and gestured toward the elevator.

The ride up to the third floor took an eternity, giving me all the time in the world to second-guess myself for making this appointment. The down arrow called to me, promising a way out. All I had to do was push it, and we could walk right out of this building and pretend I’d never made the call. Of course, nothing would change, and I’d probably end up in an unmarked grave somewhere, but at least I’d have my pride.

Dear Lord, even my inner thoughts sounded ridiculous. The only thing that mattered was protecting Dylan and I had to stay alive for that. There was no pride in love, and I’d sacrifice every ounce of my ego to prevent my son from turning out like his father. I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my rain jacket, mirroring Dylan, and turned my back on the button.

“Will there be other kids there?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I hoped not. Dylan used to be a friendly kid, but ever since my marital problems kicked into overdrive, he’d changed. Now he should be wearing a warning label announcing, ‘Doesn’t play well with others.’ Even the sweet, thoughtful principal at his new school, Ms. Ruthchild, had declared him to be on her last nerve. Last week she said he was one detention away from receiving an out-of-school suspension.

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