I pick at the threadbare couch that I chose to sit on. It looked more comfortable than the chair in front of her. It’s royal blue, or at least it used to be. I think at one time it was probably soft, plush and very comfortable, and people didn’t have a problem lying back, closing their eyes and letting all their worries flow from their mouths. You would think that with the many people that come through the door, a new couch could be purchased. I may be wrong in my assumption. I likely am. This couch holds secrets that no one ever wants out, and it’s about to know mine too. Maybe that’s why she keeps it this way.
“Why am I here today?” the words are a whisper on my lips. I can barely hear them myself and know she can’t hear me. Clearing my throat, I keep my eyes downcast and away from her face. The last thing I want is for her to see the pain in my eyes. That’s for me and me alone when I stare in the mirror, asking myself how and why.
“I’m here so you can fix… this.” The words are bitter and angry. I spread my arms out wide, and my knuckles scrape the side of the worn out armrest. I pull my right hand to me, examining my fingers for any signs of damage. A sliver maybe, something to cause pain, anything to make me feel. I have nothing.
I lean forward, determined not to cry. I don’t know why I’m here. I healed. I moved on. We moved on. Life was good, not better, but manageable. We were happy. We laughed and loved and we missed him terribly, but we woke up each day determined to make a new happy memory. But then life—no, I take that back—the military made that all change.
If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d say this was all planned, but honestly, what do they care about my life? Nothing, that’s for damn sure. They don’t care that they’ve ruined the last six years of my life because of some clerical error. “Sorry,” is all they could be bothered to say.
They’re sorry.
I realize now that I’ve spoken, the floodgates are open, and I can’t get my words out fast enough. She, the one who sits behind a desk taking notes, doesn’t have a clue as to what I’ve been through, but I’m about to tell her.
“I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not sure a session or a million sessions can fix my life right now. People have told me that time heals all wounds, but they’re full of shit. I think when that saying was coined, they meant a scratch or a bump, not a hole in the middle of your chest that you’d have to put back together piece by piece. A hole so big that when you breathe in, it burns and makes you ache all over. One that makes you beg for someone to show you mercy, even if no one will because they all feel the same way as you. And was I ever really healed, or did I wake-up one morning and decide that I needed to move on?”
“It does take time to heal, Ryley, and everyone has to do it at their own pace.”
I laugh out loud and adjust the way I’m sitting. I wish I hadn’t worn a dress today, but Lois insisted, and I’m at a point in my life where I just do as she says, so I put on a yellow sundress and pulled my hair into a blue ribbon. That’s as good as it gets for me right now. But sitting here, I want to be in sweats. I want my white socks covering my bare toes, and I want to be buried under an oversized sweatshirt. I want to hide.
“Time is my enemy. Time is the one thing I don’t have and can’t afford to lose. Time…” I shake my head and look toward the window. I bite my lip and close my eyes. My mind is blank. I refuse to see their images. I don’t want to look, or remember. “I need to find a way to stop time or reverse it.” I nod. “Reversing time would be ideal. If I could do that, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. My life… it’d be on the path that I created, that I worked hard for, but it’s not. I’m standing in the center of the Interstate with traffic coming at me from both directions waiting… desperately waiting for someone or something to change everything that has happened in the last six years. So no, time doesn’t heal anything. It just prolongs the hurt and pain.