Page 231 of Scoring the Player
“Why not call me, Mom, Dad, your doctors?” I ask.
“I just couldn’t. I made the decision that if I couldn’t figure it out on my own, I was done.”
“Done how?” My voice shakes.
He doesn’t answer.
“Done how, Denzel?”
Blue comes over and wraps his arm around my waist.
“The pain was in control,” he finally answers. “When it gets like that, it’s hard to see a way out.”
“I don’t understand. You have me, you have people who would have gotten on a plane to be there with you as soon as you called. Why?” I look away as my eyes burn.
Blue leans in, anchoring me with his arm.
“I know. I just couldn’t see it,” Denzel murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
“You need a minute?” Blue asks me quietly.
I shake my head. I need answers. “Go on,” I tell Denzel.
“That night, I found the pamphlet the nurse had given me. It had people sitting on the beach in some tropical place, and inside there was a story about a former Marine who has PTSD. She had sold all her stuff and traveled to South America. She talked about taking medicine there that helped her deal with the flashbacks and nightmares from her time overseas. I didn’t really believe it, but I was so low, I was willing to try just about anything.”
“Medicine? What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Ayahuasca, psilocybin,” he answers.
“You’re telling me you disappeared for months to get high in Mexico?” I ask incredulously.
“Wait,” Blue says, rubbing my chest. “My therapist told me about this. I struggle with C-PTSD,” he tells Denzel.
“Me too,” Anaïs says.
“Zuri said there are clinical trials that use Indigenous medicine like psilocybin and MDMA to help with what he’s describing. It’s not about getting high.”
“It’s true,” Denzel says. “It was structured just like a clinical trial. We met one-on-one and in groups with mental health facilitators and Indigenous healers for a few weeks to prepare us. Then we took the medicine, and then there was a period of integration.”
“Did it work?” Anaïs asks.
“Not for everyone in my group, but it helped me some. I still need therapy, but?—”
“How?” I break in. “How did it work for you?”
“I’d been stuck in a loop of what happened to me overseas—like pieces of memories—the same scenes over and over, but with the sessions, I could zoom out and see the full picture without having to relive it. I’ve been sleeping better than I can remember in a long time.” He blows out a breath. “I also got my appetite back and?—”
“Why couldn’t you call?” I demand, noticing the tic in his left hand is barely noticeable. “I’m glad you got help, but why couldn’t you just pick up the phone and text me or Mom or Dad?”
“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t. As soon as I got sleep and started coming back online, I realized how worried you all must’ve been. I skipped the closing ceremony and got on the first plane back.”
I shake my head, staring at the floor. Every day, I’d wished for this moment—him alive and okay, at home with me. And now that he’s here, I want to hold him close, but I also want to yell and shake him for all the worry he’s caused us.
The terror he experienced serving this country.
I am angry about all of it.
Blue works his thumb inside my closed fist. “It’s hard, you know,” he says, looking at me but speaking high enough for Denzel and Anaïs to hear. “Whether we mean to or not, we can ask a lot of the people who love us when we aren’t well. We can miss how hard it is for them too.” He turns to Denzel. “I’m speaking from my own experience. And based on what Salem has told me, he’s been worried about you since you enlisted. Now that you’re doing better, are you planning to stick around for a while? Be here for him?”
