Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe

I

There is a certain spirit that lives in marshy places—often along the edges of swamps. It is never seen during the day, only at night, and even then its heart is the only part visible. Its heart appears as a small ball of fire that may be seen moving about, a short distance above the surface of the water.

- “Myths of the Louisiana Choctaw,” David I. Bushnell, Jr.

ELIEN (1)

The DuPage-St. Tammany Parish Support Group for Survivors with PTSD—DSTP-PTSD, as it was printed on every email, bulletin, and placard—didn’t have donuts. I guess somebody had thought that palindrome was cute. Or funny. That’s what we’re known for, us survivors with PTSD: our sense of humor. But not donuts. That was one of the reasons I kept coming. AA had donuts. NA had donuts. SAA had donuts. GA had donuts. And even though I didn’t exactly need to go to any of those meetings—at twenty-two years old, I didn’t gamble, all my scrips were legal, and I’d given up Chardonnay when I’d taken up Prozac. As for sex addiction, well, very funny, tell me another. Just knowing about the other support groups was risky. Donuts were a clear and present danger.

I kept coming to DSTP-PTSD for a lot of reasons, I guess. No donuts, obvs. And I kept coming because it was one of those things you were supposed to do. I kept coming because I didn’t work, I didn’t have any hobbies, and I didn’t have any friends. I kept coming because I could only vacuum the living room or organize the pantry or launder dust ruffles so many times before I started thinking very seriously about wading out into the bayou to meet a hungry gator. But really, gun to my head, I kept coming because I knew Richard would leave me if I didn’t.

I had a Walkman when I was twelve, and the thing I remember about the Walkman was I could put in my Alanis Morissette CD—Jagged Little Pill, not Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie, thank you very much—and I could hit Repeat and listen to “All I Really Want” for as long as I wanted, as many times as I wanted. And then one time the Repeat button broke, and I listened to “All I Really Want” for six days straight before I swapped CDs. Coming to group was like that.

Today, Leola was talking about her mom. Her mom had been a junkie—about half the people in the room had moms who were junkies—and her mom had run a dry-cleaning business. The junkie part wasn’t what Leola talked about, most of the time. The junkie part was whipped cream, I guess, in comparison. What Leola talked about was the times her mom was sober and mean and vicious. Wire hangers. Chemical burns. Those thin plastic bags wrapped around her face until she lost consciousness.

The basement of Du Page First Methodist had a wall of long, narrow windows that let in the afternoon light. The walls were painted concrete, and the floor had those high-traffic carpet squares that you can replace easily. We met on Tuesdays, after the preschool let out. You could still smell animal crackers, soiled diapers, and rubber cement.

The thing about hearing tragedy, week after week, is you can let it keep hurting you, let the razor blades slice you up every single time, or you can turn off inside. Even if it’s your own tragedy. Especially if it’s your own tragedy.

When Leola finished, we all looked at Zahra. She had glided into middle age pretty comfortably, although her graying hair was in a severe bun, which made her long face look a little longer. She worked in the same practice as Richard; the support group was her personal project.

“Elien, how about you?”

“Not much to report,” I said.

“How did things go last Wednesday?”

“Wednesday?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“It was your mom’s birthday, bitch,” Tamika said. “Don’t pretend.”

“Tamika,” Zahra said. “That’s not the way we talk to each other in here.”

“I guess it wasn’t perfect,” I said.

Zahra waited. They all waited: Dave, Leola, Kenny, Ray, Mason, Willie, Tamika, Stephanie, Danielle. The whole circle. Waiting.

“I kind of had a meltdown that morning,” I said, shrugging.

Willie, on my right, nodded and lowered his head. Kenny ran a hand through his locs and said, “You got this, man.”

“I mean, it wasn’t really any different than my other meltdowns,” I said. “I was folding some of Richard’s clothes. I . . . I guess he didn’t shut the shower off all the