Page 6 of False Start

I give her a small salute, and she gives me the finger before slamming the door behind her.

I chuckle to myself. Yeah. I'm definitely going to enjoy riling her up.

Chapter four

Denise

"Ihadhopedtodiscussthe recurring dream you mentioned at the end of our last session, Denise, but…you seem agitated. Care to share what's bothering you?"

Dr. Jamison's dark brown eyes, magnified by thick glasses, look at me keenly. As always, she doesn't miss a thing.

But I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to be here today. Each week, we pick at my scabs, opening up wounds and releasing pent-up emotions that had begun to fester before I sought help two years ago. It's uncomfortable and it's hard, and that's when I'm not already pissed off.

Today, I'm pissed the fuck off.

When I'm pissed off, I'd much rather bury myself in work, grin and bear it, or self-medicate with a quick trip to the dispensary than face things head on. Sure, they're just Band-Aids on the gaping torpedo hole in my chest that threatens to consume me with each passing day, but they're so much easier. Unfortunately, Doc informed me years ago that my coping mechanisms "aren't healthy or productive".

Pshh. What does she know?I pout inwardly. It's childish and I would never say it out loud, but the grumbling helps…A little.

After years going it alone with limited success, I finally opened my browser and looked for psychiatrists covered by my insurance. I thought—and secretly hoped—that Dr. Jamison would prescribe a pill so I could be done with it, but she dared me to continue, to see if talk therapy could actually help before going the medical route. She played to my stubborn side, and I signed up for six weeks of therapy that very day. Escitalopram still helps keep me even (unless I foolishly mix it with alcohol), but Dr. Jamison became my life preserver, then my swim coach, helping me keep my head above water.

"I lost the necklace," I whisper, eyes tearing up at the admission. Cory still hadn't called to say he'd found it, and the venue hadn't found anything either, though I didn't really think they would.

"The one Andre gave you?" she guesses. My throat is too thick with emotion, so I just nod. The necklace was the last gift he'd given me, a butterfly meant to represent rebirth after his last attempt to leave the world behind, to leaveusbehind.

The quetiapine is working, he'd beamed, before taking out the small gold box.I already feel lighter, more in control.

He was two weeks home from in-patient care and I hoped hard enough to hurt that he was right, that this really was the answer to the soaring highs that led to manic calls from Atlantic City, and the devastating lows that kept him in bed in the dark for twenty hours of the day, missing most of his classes. I needed to believe him, to believe that an end to the constant worry about my brother's mental health was in sight.

A month later, he was gone.

"It's not just that I lost it," I continue, tears running down my face now, "it'showI lost it. I was celebrating my best friend's wedding. It was supposed to be a joyous event. I had a few too many drinks, slept with someone I shouldn't have, and lost the last thing I had to remember my brother."

Dr. Jamison raises an eyebrow and I wince.

"I know, I know. I shouldn't have been drinking at all. But it was my girl's wedding!"

"That look wasn't about the drinking," she starts, in a comforting voice my mother never mastered, "although I don't recommend it with your medication. What interests me is how you've centered memories of your brother in a physical object."

"So I'm not allowed to be upset I lost a treasured gift? I'm supposed to be sohealedit doesn't matter that a token of my brother's love, of his hope for the future, might be lost forever?"

I spit the words angrily at her, knowing they're not fair. I hold back my emotions so much of the time, worried they'll overwhelm me or scare someone else, that I lean into them in my sessions more than I should. Dr. Jamison doesn't waver, though. This truly is a safe space, as nauseating as I find that term.

"It is totally reasonable to be upset about losing a keepsake from your brother. I only hope you don't use that as a reason to retreat back inside. Your memories of him, and his love for you, exist far beyond that necklace."

I absentmindedly reach for where the necklace usually rests against my chest and she follows the movement. I quickly drop my hand to my lap.

"How 'bout that recurring dream?" I deflect, trying for a lighthearted laugh that sounds forced. She smiles knowingly.

"OK. Tell me about the dream."

"It's the same as always," I begin, settling back into her plush leather couch. "Andre and I are driving in what seems like a loop. We're laughing together, smiling, but I feel anxious. We seem to be getting faster and faster each time around. The last time, as we cross a bridge, there's a gap straight ahead, but we're going too fast to stop. We hit the water hard and the car sinks. I'm able to swim back to the surface, only Andre's not there. I'm alone, and there's nothing around for miles. Then I wake up."

Just the memory of the dream is enough to make me clench my fist, bracing against an unknown threat. I release it and look over to see Dr. Jamison writing. I hate it when she writes.

"I'm not an expert in dream analysis, but I think there are some themes worth exploring. Your feelings of being out of control. How the bottom literally dropped out from under you. The fact that you survived when Andre didn't. Your isolation. Often, dreams are our unconscious mind's way of dealing with concepts we don't want to or can't deal with while awake."

"Well, the isolationhasto be because of my parents, especially my mom," I insist. "Once Andre died, they shut down. It's like they didn't care that they still had a kid left. Andre took up all the worry and, when he was gone, they were just too exhausted to continue."

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