The Ahern Brothers Collection - Claudia Burgoa Page 0,94
me busy during the day. At first, I couldn’t do much because my hands were still healing. Now that my mobility has returned, I’m able to participate in more classes.
Every day I get to choose from equine therapy, art therapy, yoga, breathwork, and meditation. I’m not ready for Tai Chi or the Zumba classes yet, but one day I’d like to try kick-boxing. Before I leave the center, I’ll take self-defense classes too. Meeting new people every day is another benefit of the center. Being here gives me a sense of community, friendship, and understanding.
The center specializes in sexual assault trauma. Everyone who resides here has experienced what I did in some form or another. At some level, we understand what the other has gone through. We’re accepting and lift each other up.
There are mornings when I can’t get out of bed, but my cabin-mates remind me that I have a purpose in life. Other days, I’m the one cheering them up. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I have the support of many. It feels good to also be there for others. We’re like a tribe looking out for each other and assuring one another’s survival.
I’m finally making friends. The kind I can openly talk to about my past without restrictions and who won’t judge me. They listen, and if I need it, they give me a hug or cheer me up.
Every day I go to therapy, unless I’m not doing well. Those days I’m obligated to attend two sessions.
Today isn’t a good day. After breakfast, I head toward building B where my session will start in just a few minutes. My throat has felt nearly closed since I woke up at three in the morning, and I can barely breathe. The only way I could’ve diminished the effect of the nightmare was by going for a run, but we’re not allowed to go running in the middle of the night. Doing crunches for two hours was exhausting, but it didn’t help at all.
“Good morning, Abby. How are you feeling?” Rose, my therapist asks.
Even though there are different counselors in the center, we’re assigned to only one. It’s hard to build a relationship with another person from scratch. Getting used to a counselor, trusting them, and being willing to talk about our issues takes time. If they switched practitioners often, we wouldn’t be able to move forward.
“Unstable,” I say, taking a seat. “I had a nightmare. Wes came to save me. He ran into the room, but it was a trap. I tried to warn him, but I couldn’t talk. Shaun shot him five times. He was lying on the floor, awash in his own blood.”
“You seem to be handling it better than the last one,” she says studying my face. “How’s the scalp?”
A week ago, I had a similar nightmare, and I scratched my scalp until it bled. I cried for two days straight. Everything reminded me of the dream, of Wes, of the loss.
“I haven’t harmed myself, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
She nods. “What did you do after you woke up?”
“I rinsed my face and did some crunches since I couldn’t go out for a run.” My voice carries a lot of bitterness and anger.
“It’s for your safety. If you sprain an ankle, no one would be able to get to you until the next morning.”
“Well, today, they didn’t let me run for long, and taking five-minute showers feels arbitrary.”
“Your goal is to break those obsessive patterns,” she says as she reads through her notes. “We’re just helping.”
Helping, they claim, but it feels like I’m in prison when they tell me, you can’t go farther or that’s all the time you get for today.
I’m allowed to take one shower a day for five minutes—ten if I wash my hair. It’s hard to abide by their rules and confront my feelings at the same time. Physically, I’m in a much better place. Emotionally and mentally? It’s going to be a long and painful process to find myself.
“Maybe I’m beyond help,” I say frustrated.
“Baby steps,” Rose says, and I’m positive that she’s about to lecture me. “Trust me, you’re doing great.”
I snort. That’s not helping me settle right now. It feels like I’m failing, and I’ll never be ready to leave this place. Not that I hate it. I’m grateful that I can be somewhere where I’m safe from myself and others.