The first several chapters of this one are being updated starting on 10/21/2023. I went back to correct some grammar and phrasing. As well as some story elements.
This chapter, "Post Traumatic Stress and Exorcisms," updated 10/21/2023
Elizabeth tries meditating and then decides she'd rather have an exorcism.
...In, two, three, four …Hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven …Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight …And In—
Wait! I have to respond to that email from Minister Chin about-
No, Elizabeth. You have to do this.
...In, two, three, four …Hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven …Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight …And In—
The phone call for Nuclear Disarmament possibilities with DOD is at 1:30, and-
No, Lizzie, get it together.
...In, two, three, four …Hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven …Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight …And In—
Allison has that art show I promised to attend tomorrow at 6. Did I tell Blake to put it on my Calendar? Henry and I are supposed to have a date night on Friday, and I have to find time to take an everything shower that day between a few meetings. What if I move—
Wow, nice going. I did it again.
...In, two, three, four …Hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven …Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight …And In—
I have that debrief on US personnel involved in the Iran Coup tomorrow at noon. We need to get that done before Juliet's sentencing next month. I must upload more whale sounds on my phone to get through that. I should visit George's grave- no, that's too final, I can't go there. I feel myself slipping. I have to get back to breathing, but the window is broken. I need to, but Fred is on top of me. Abdul is crying, and I need to get to him. The gunshots won't stop, they won't stop, it never stops-
"I can't fucking do this anymore!" I let myself yell. The yelling works. It works. Nothing has ever removed the panic so fast. I grab a pillow and scream into it. I'm finally screaming, crying, and releasing the anger, ever-present under the surface. I'm so lost in the feeling that I didn't hear Henry come running into the room, and I startle as he lays his hand on my shoulder. It takes me a minute to register that he's talking to me.
"Let it out, baby. It's okay. Just let it out." He's so gentle and so quiet. I'm suddenly overwhelmed with how much I love him, with how much he loves me. I almost made him live in a world where I only existed in his memory. I couldn't imagine living without him. I throw my body onto his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. I let myself really cry while he holds me, kisses my head, and rubs my back. He doesn't ask any questions. He never has. He knows I'm not good at talking about the trauma. That's why he was surprised when I agreed to try therapy.
He continues to hold me for what feels like a long time, even after I've run out of tears. I back away to look at him. He smiles a little lovingly, in the way he always does. I lean in to give him a chaste kiss.
"Do you feel better?" he asks earnestly.
I pause. I don't know. Do I feel better? What is better? I've done a fair amount of reading on PTSD since the diagnosis, right down to memorizing the dictionary definition. I have looked into the treatments and the physical changes that occur to the brain and nervous system. I needed the information. I need it to make sense. It's why I've always loved math. But PTSD doesn't make sense. Not every person with Trauma gets lucky enough to acquire this particular souvenir. I want it gone. I do not want to live with this anymore. I want to have it removed from my brain. I'm just so tired of living with this all the time. I feel so helpless and weak and broken.
I must have lost myself in thought for too long because Henry puts his hand on my cheek, "Elizabeth?"
"I guess… Yes, I feel better, but I also feel so weak." I decide that was the answer. Maybe this time, honesty can be the medicine.
He smiles at me. "You know, Kahlil Gibran once said, 'Tenderness and kindness are not signs of weakness and despair, but a manifestation of strength and resolution.' You've been through a lot this past year. Crying will never make you weak. Having PTSD doesn't make you weak either." He kisses my cheek, and I nod, choosing to believe him.
"Well…" I start, "I am concluding that I hate PTSD, and I think I'm done with it. Can I just get an exorcism and have it removed from my brain?" it's an honest question. I've tried everything else. I figure my Catholic Religious Scholar husband probably knows someone.
Henry laughs, "I'll look into it. In the meantime, can I offer you ice cream and popcorn for breakfast?"
I think for a half second, yes, we'll try food before we start calling priests.
"That might work. We'll do the PTSD demon exorcism some other day." I give him another kiss and stand up, offering my hand to help him do the same. We hold hands on our way to the kitchen to arm ourselves with the best tool for demon slaying: Mocha Fudge.