Back On My Feet Again

Author's warning:

This story explores a dark subject; mental disorders. It briefly suggests the exploitation of people with mental challenges by the medical profession, and society. It's a relatively short exploration into the mind of someone with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I've taken every precaution in avoiding obvious triggers, but with this disorder, it is not always possible to avoid every possible scenario that could affect the readers.

The story is written in a different voice, POV, and tense than I normally write because it is a subject near to my heart. I hope the readers will find it somewhat enlightening and enjoyable. Further, I hope you will find the outcome uplifting. There is an accompanying song that speaks to the author and hopefully the reader as well. If you would like to listen to the song, the link is provided following this message. Thank you for reading.

'When I'm Back on My Feet Again' by Michael Bolton

*****

Back on My Feet Again

It is a dark place with bright lights overhead that place her in the spotlight. The lights are her cue. Every night is the same; first, the dark void, then the lights, then the screams. It is like living in a time-warp where history repeats itself.

The screams come the way a train whistle blows; in the beginning, distant and shrill. As the train approaches, louder, piercing, unbearable to the ear. And, in the end, terrifying, so horrific no one can stand them, not even the light. They extinguish the light and only darkness and silence prevail. Merciful silence.

She tells herself...no, she commands herself to open her eyes, then realizes they are open; she just can't see. A new wave of panic sets in. She can't see. How the hell can she find her way out of the darkness if she can't see? There must be an exit here somewhere. Feel for it. It's got to be there somewhere.

She feels the wall; nothing but solid wall. Maybe it's higher, maybe a window instead of a door. Reach higher! Stretch and reach. Find a way out; claw your way out if you must, but escape. You

must

escape if you want to survive.

*****

"What the fuck is it this time?" A recognizable voice, irritated, annoyed, but familiar.

She turns towards it and she's not blind anymore. Things come into focus. No wonder she couldn't find the door. There is no door, only a corner where two walls meet. But, they're

her

walls, and that at least means something. It's not much, but at least she is in a world she recognizes.

The voice again. "What the fuck are you

doing

?" A pause as she gives him a blank stare. Then the rant begins.

"This shit has got to stop! Every night it's the same fucking thing. No one can sleep. You've gone out of your mind and I can't deal with it anymore. I'm over it! Do you hear me? You get your fucking shit together or I'm out of here."

He storms away and the tears come. Not just a few, but a flood. She puts her back against the wall for support and slowly slides to the floor.

*****

"And, how does that make you feel?" Another clinical analysis. Group therapy that goes nowhere, except in circles.

She sighs and answers. "Like I'm insane and

you

are a fucking idiot for asking."

Her therapist, John's lips twitch and curl slightly at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicker up at her and then quickly drop. He knows her well enough to expect the unexpected, but still, he must try to maintain some semblance of authority and control. He's surrounded by a circle of mentally and emotionally unstable people.

"I'll remind you again to control your profanity," he says in a dull voice. He hides his admiration behind a blank expression.

She stands and paces. "Why? Everyone here has heard 'fucking idiot' before. How many times a day do

you

hear it, John?"

She has a point and she never hesitates to challenge him when she knows she's right. He sighs and lays the pad and pen in his lap. "More than I care to admit. I've asked you not to call me 'John' during group."

She waves her arms at him in frustration. "That's your name, isn't it? What is it, John? Are you afraid for a bunch of crazy people to know I call you by your name now?"

A snicker goes around the circle and he flashes her a warning look. Her rebelliousness is at an all-time high today. He wonders what triggered it this time. Maybe she is still angry over the tests he tried to administer to her yesterday. She threw the puzzle pieces at him before she stormed from the room.

She reaches for and lights a cigarette. It's against the rules, but she does it anyway.

"You know you're not supposed to smoke in here." He has to say something. It's his job to enforce the rules even if he doesn't agree with them.

"Yeah, well,

John

, I'm not supposed to do a lot of the shit I do. You are the one who insisted I sit in on this little

tete-a-tete

. It wasn't my idea. If you don't want me in here, then unlock the fucking door and I'll leave."

"The door isn't locked. You can leave anytime you get ready." He doesn't need to point that out to her.

Since her first stay, she comes and goes as she pleases. She checks in and she checks out, as she pleases. She uses the facility like it's a five-star hotel. She has excellent insurance and a blank check from her lawyers to back it up. The administrators won't turn her away while she has that going for her. They don't care if she never gets better, not as long as she is happy enough to keep coming back. She's a hard case and a soft woman, the most dangerous combination of all.

He looks around as several more surly faces suddenly light up as well. The room is suddenly filled with smoke and bad vibes.

"Let's put the cigarettes out, everyone, and continue our discussion, please," he asks without malice.

Another male speaks up. "This is supposed to be a support group. We're just showing our support," he shrugs and takes another long drag on his Marlborough. She exchanges a wicked smile with him. "I've got your back," he grins.

"Me, too!" says another man to her left. He gives his cigarette a small wave to demonstrate his own stance.

This one worries him. He's the reason she came back this morning insisting on taking the psychological tests again. Gary tipped her off on how to put the puzzles together. Gary's slick and he likes her. He isn't helping her, but he doesn't see it that way. Together, she and Gary are bucking the system.

"Where is Cesare, anyway? I want to see Cesare," she complains.

"Do you mean

Doctor Gonzalez

?" he asks correcting her informal reference. "He'll be in later today."

"What the fuck is he doing today? Playing golf?" she asks as she flings herself back down in a chair with a visible pout. Another snicker erupts around the circle.

Fuck! He needs

this

today. He needs to redirect the focus of the group.

John sighs heavily and leans back in his chair. "Is there anyone here who wants to discuss their problems today?" Everyone is silent. "Then, why don't we discuss the twelve steps to recovery?" he prompts.

The circle looks around at one another and moans.

"We could talk about my girlfriend and how she's fucking my best friend while I'm locked up in here," the blonde, Gary, suggests. "Filthy whore!"

"We've talked about this before, Gary. You are not responsible for the actions of others. You can't change their behavior; you can only control your own responses to it," John reminds them gently. The circle finishes the last sentence with him as one voice. She's tweaked them, incited them all to rebel and be uncooperative.

"I can change her actions alright. Just let me get out of this place and I'll show you how!" Gary snorts.

"We're not here to discuss our significant others," John admonishes again.

"I have an idea!" Robert, the man with the Marlborough offers. The circle turns their heads to acknowledge him. "Let's talk about who

you

are fucking these days, Doc." He cuts his eyes to her and smirks.

She meets his knowing stare evenly and smiles at him while she crushes out her cigarette.

"This session is over," John decrees as he rises from his chair and opens the door with a stoic expression.

*****

"Hi, Doc!" she smiles as he strides into the room.

"What's the occasion?" he asks as he eyes her sitting on top of his desk. She prefers sitting on his desk. She knows it unnerves him. He sits down in his executive chair and opens a file.

"What occasion?" she asks. Her question sounds benign, almost innocent.

"You called me 'Doc'. Why the formality all the sudden?"

Her therapist has already warned him that she is in rare form today. They talk about her often, not just as colleagues, but as men with a mutual concern and admiration for her. They agree there's a lot to admire, and a lot more to be concerned about.

"Just being polite, Cesare," she shrugs. "Don't you like me to be nice every once in a while?"

She's baiting him. She does it to virtually everyone. It's her way of fighting back; her way of just trying to survive.

"You make me nervous when you're nice. It makes me wonder what you are up to now," he frowns with sarcasm.

"How's your wife, Cesare?" she asks. Her tactics are never subtle.

"Don't start with me today, or I won't take you to lunch," he scolds.

He has tried punishing her that way a time or two. It backfired on him. She's a stubborn woman and too intelligent to engage in a sparring match of words.

"You're taking me to lunch again? How nice! What's the excuse this time? Did you tell them you're taking me out for shock therapy?"

"If anybody is getting 'shock therapy', it's me," he declares. "There's a day-pass in your file. Use it. I'll pick you up across the street at the store."

She shakes her head. "You better let me walk to the bus stop at the end of the block. The guys have been jumping the fence to go buy cigarettes at the store. Someone might see us."

It's amazing how she manages to care about others, how she goes out of her way to try to protect them and leaves herself open for destruction.

"The patients are leaving the premises?" he asks sounding surprised. "When did they start that?"

"When I wanted a candy-bar the other day. Gary offered to go for me. Now, he and Robert take turns going to get my cigarettes every day. Don't worry. They always come back, just in time for the four o'clock meds," she assures him.

She's not like the others. It's one of the things he finds interesting about her. She balks at taking the medications he prescribes. She says they make her feel less in control of her own life. She knows she has an addiction already and she fights to keep it at a minimum.

"How are things with your husband?" he asks. He asks cautiously. Her mood always brightens when she doesn't want to respond. The brighter her attitude, the darker the truth.

"Great! I hardly ever see him anymore. Especially when I'm in here. He doesn't even come to visit me. I see way more of you than I do him. Maybe I could just move in here permanently and live with you part-time, Cesare."

She doesn't bother to suppress her sarcasm or hostility towards her spouse. She uses the resident facilities as a means of escape from her husband. She feels alienated from her family, especially him. Their marriage is doomed.

"How's the eating thing?" he asks.

Her secondary affliction has taken a front-row seat in his concerns. She's anorexic and bordering on reaching the point of no return. It's one of the reasons he takes her to lunch as often as he can. She refuses to eat the facility food.

The food isn't bad, but her first stay, she found an empty cracker packet floating in her soup. Of all the people in the world for that to happen to, it had to be her. It triggered her and now she eats nothing from the kitchen here.

"Is this an official office visit?" she asks with false suspicion. He doesn't answer and she sighs. "Okay, so I haven't lost any more weight. That's good, right?"

"You can't afford to lose any more weight. Are you eating?" he asks again.

"Ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream."

"That's something at least. Are you sleeping?" he probes. He waits for her response without looking at her.

"Only with you, darling. Why? Are you jealous?"

He scowls at her with disapproval. There are times when she brings out both the best and the worst in him. He's genuinely fond of her in more ways than one.

"I honestly don't know why I put up with you sometimes," he replies trying to sound detached.

"Because I'm a sick individual who desperately needs your help. Need I remind you of that fact?" Her voice softens. "How long is this going to go on, Cesare?"

She's looking for answers he doesn't have. As always, he's deliberately vague.

"Until you convince me to close your case."

"That could take years." It's already been more than a year.

"It could," he shrugs off the concern. It's best not to tell her he's running out of options to treat her symptoms. She's running out of time to improve.

"When my insurance runs out, I won't have the money to keep paying you," she says.

She knows. He wishes she didn't, but she knows.

"Let me worry about that. I'm not going to abandon you." He lays down his pen and says, "Go find something to do for the next half-hour. I'll pick you up at the bus stop."

*****

Seven Years Later

"So, can I ask you something, half-pint?"

The man speaking is filling his mouth with a breakfast biscuit. He's attractive, dirty-blonde with blue eyes and an average build for someone who works every day for a living.

"Only if you'll stop calling me half-pint," she scowls over a cup of hot coffee.

"How come you don't ever eat? All I ever see you put in your mouth are those pills you take and something liquid to wash them down. Don't you ever eat anything?"

She looks uneasily around. "I eat when and what I can, which isn't much. I don't eat because I'm supposed to be crazy. Haven't you heard?"

"I've heard. You don't seem very crazy to me. You're about the most intelligent person I've met in a long time." He pauses to sip his coffee. "So, what are those pills for anyway, or shouldn't I ask?"

"You can ask, I don't mind. They're supposed to be magic pills. The be-all, end-all sure-fire cure for crazy. Don't ever let anyone tell you there is such a thing as magic pills. They don't work," she scoffs. "I planted one once, and it wouldn't even grow a beanstalk. No giants, no golden eggs, no nothing."

He laughs. "See? I told you that you aren't crazy. I keep waiting to see you crazy, but I haven't seen it yet." He returns her smile. "So, why do they say you are crazy?"

"Because I'm not really me. I look like me, and talk like me... but, I'm not really me. Not anymore. I woke up one day, and just like

that

!" she snaps her fingers. "I'm not me anymore."

His expression turns serious. "Why not? What happened?"

She stiffens and looks away. "I have PTSD. Do you know what that is?"

"I've heard of it. I don't really know what it is though. Explain it to me. How do you get it and what does it do to you?"

She hesitates because talking about it is difficult for her. Sometimes, it triggers her symptoms, but he really seems to want to know. Almost immediately, he senses her sudden discomfort.

"If you don't like to talk about it, never mind. I don't want to pry or cause you any problem. I would just like to know. I'm nosy that way." He gives her another smile.

"Well," she says clearing her throat to prepare. Whenever she is required to talk about it, she's learned to put on a mask. She's reading from a mental script, one she memorized years ago. The mask prevents people from seeing what's really going on inside her head. The mask and the script have gotten her through the past seven years.

"Well, it's a mental condition caused from a physical or mental trauma. Like when soldiers are exposed to battle, or when passengers survive a plane crash, or even rape victims. Sometimes, the trauma can be so great that the mind just shuts down. It won't let you remember it or think about it because it's too painful," she explains.

"Yeah, I get it. They used to call it 'battle fatigue' in soldiers. I've heard of it. So, if you don't remember, what happens to you?" he says without looking at her.

"The memories come out in dreams, or sometimes waking flash-backs. It makes you act crazy, do crazy shit." She humps her shoulders and says, "Sorry! I'm not supposed to use the word 'crazy'. Normal people don't like it. It makes them uncomfortable."

"Like what kind of crazy shit?" he asks ignoring her sarcasm. He's looking at her now, but not as if he's judging her.

"Any number of things. Anxiety attacks, night terrors where you wake the entire neighborhood up screaming, sleep-walking, mood swings, irrational fears or phobias, those kinds of things," she explains more in depth. "It keeps you from focusing or being able to finish things you start. You can't concentrate. It makes you...not normal."

He frowns. "That's not crazy, half-pint. That sounds like a normal reaction to some terrible shit. I mean, if someone could be scared to death, why couldn't they be scared half-crazy? Maybe you're not all the way crazy. Just half, right?" He's teasing her, mocking her to make her feel better. "What are the pills for?"

She's serious now. He's made her feel almost normal talking about it. "They're supposed to help with the anxiety and panic attacks. If I can get the anxiety under control, then I can eat more and sleep better. It happens once in a while."

"You're right. They must not be working because I never see you eat, and from what I hear, you don't sleep much either," he astutely observes.

Someone drops a plastic serving tray on the floor and it makes a loud noise. She jumps and automatically reaches for a cigarette. Her hands shake as she tries to light it. He lights it for her instead.

"Come on. Let's get out of here," he says as he stands. His hand goes to the small of her back as he guides her to the door. She feels safe with his hand on her back. She feels a little calmer. She's ready to face the next hurdle, meeting her new boss.

She stops suddenly before he opens the car door for her. "Tom, does this guy know about me?"

"What do you mean?" he asks looking puzzled.

"I mean... did you tell him about me having PTSD?"

He shakes his head. "Let him meet you first. Then he can decide for himself if he thinks you're crazy or not. He's a doctor, so if anyone would know, he should."

He sees she's nervous about meeting Doc. "Look, I think when he looks at you, all he's going to see is the same thing I do. A beautiful and intelligent woman. If I know Doc, you're already hired. Now, get in. You don't want to be late your first day on the job, do you?"

*****

She watches him out of the corner of her eye. It has been a long day. She's tired, and her sugar is low. Another complication; she hypo-glycemic, the anorexia makes it worse. She's starving and she feels weak from not eating. That isn't likely to change anytime soon. She isn't apt to eat until tomorrow, if then.

She's too 'keyed' from all the excitement of having a new job. Oh, it isn't a 'real job', not the kind where you work in an office and punch a clock. However, it is a paying job. She can work at her own pace and on her own schedule, and better still, the moment she decides it's over, it's over. No pressure.

"Do you mind if I run by the hardware store before I take you home? I need to check on some parts I need for tomorrow," he breaks her concentration. She shakes her head and looks directly at him for a few seconds. He turns his head her way and smiles again. They both look back at the road ahead.

She looks at him a lot when he doesn't know she's looking. She continues to look for something, anything that will tell her she's wrong about him. But, so far, she hasn't been wrong. He's still as attractive as he was the day they met. He's no male model, not like the men she used to work with, or even some of the men she's dated in the past, but he's attractive in a working-man kind of way.