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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781477259931 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2012 |
| Pages: | 276 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.75(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Never Say Never
The Sequel to Never Let GoBy Amy Johnson
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 Amy JohnsonAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-5994-8
Chapter One
Sick
PTSD (Post traumatic stress disorder)—an emotional illness; anxiety disorder; affects emotional and social functioning; caused by enduring a terribly frightening, life threatening or otherwise highly unsafe experience; symptoms include: avoidance; hyper arousal; depression; re-experiencing; nightmares; flashbacks; phobias; sleep problems; trouble focusing; irritability; blackouts or loss of time; easily frightened; hyper vigilance (watchfulness/ protectiveness); emotional deadness; detachment; suicidal thoughts; explosive anger; passive aggressive behaviors; impulsive behaviors; feelings of helplessness; distortions of reality; hopelessness; shame, guilt; despair; extreme stress. Treatment includes psychological therapy and medical interventions; providing information about the illness; handling the trauma by talking about it directly (support groups); teaching ways to handle/cope with the symptoms; medication includes sleep aids as needed, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety regimen for up to one year or longer if needed.
Hello Dr. Branson,
Not sure how I should start this. Even though you have met me, perhaps an introduction would be most appropriate? My name is Amina Rechelle Jefferson. I'm 24, single, (divorced) and I am a department store office manager. Last month, I went through quite a horrifying ordeal. My ex-husband kidnapped my cousin and held her, me and members of his own family hostage. It ended horribly.
Before he died, he begged me for forgiveness. I attended his funeral and told his corpse that all was forgiven. I'm pretty sure now, that forgiveness is easier said than done. I lied. I did not intend to lie, but I am certain now that I have not truly forgiven him and my conscience knows. He knows too. He haunts me. I can not shake the memories, no matter how hard I try. Sometimes, I catch myself smiling and feeling happy that he is dead. That's awful isn't it?
I know that you have read in my notes from the other doctor that our marriage was highly dysfunctional. He was abusive, mean and controlling. I endured his treatment for almost nine months before I decided that he was not going to change and things would get worse before they got better. It took longer than usual to put a legal end to our marriage because he did not cooperate, but eventually our divorce was final. I thought that this would equal a new beginning for me because I had also graduated from college around the same time. I was sadly mistaken.
Even divorcing him and avoiding him at all costs did not stop him from terrorizing me. I started planning to relocate to another city, which terrified my mother. She felt that he would follow me to where ever I moved and continue to harass me. She wanted me to stay close, in town, where I had family and friends to help and support me. I agreed with her advice and I was honestly doing the best that I could, minding my own business—going to work, coming home, occasionally hanging out with family and friends. I even attempted to start dating again. It seemed the more I ventured out into the world and asserted my independence, the more he bothered me. He refused to move on.
Yes, he is gone now, but sometimes I can still hear his mean ugly voice in my head. At least once maybe even twice a day, I choke up when I see the simplest object like a fishing pole or a flashlight, for example, or someone who reminds me of him (like his family or friends), or even if I hear a song that he liked or smell the cologne that he used. I find myself forcing thoughts out of my mind on a regular basis.
Then there are the random moments. Someone could say a word or phrase that he said or even use the same inflection in their voice and a flood of memories start to crash down on me like furious waves on the beach. When memories like this creep up on me, I have these weird, sometimes uncontrollable panic attacks during which I shake, tremble, gasp and wheeze. It is as if the memories take my breath away and leave me shivering like I am enveloped in a blanket of ice.
Fortunately, it has not really happened in front of anyone. They might have rushed me to the emergency room thinking that I was having a seizure or something! When it does happen, I can feel it starting in the pit of my stomach and it moves up quickly, paralyzing me and making it hard to breathe.
I went for a psychological evaluation after Tim's death and Dr. Bill Reeves encouraged me to set up appointments with a therapist on a regular basis because he diagnosed me with post traumatic stress. I went to the therapist, Dr. Henry Sandoval once. I have to be brutally honest: Dr. Sandoval made me feel very uncomfortable with his little round glasses, bald shiny head and dark bushy eyebrows. The deep raspy tone of his voice did not sit well with me either.
Listening to him made my back itch and I could hardly say a word in his dark office. I felt squirmy and agitated when I was with him. I just did not feel safe, I counted the seconds until that session was over, and I never went back. He probably wrote that I was a basket case or something to that effect in his notes. He just did not work for me because the minute I saw him, I knew that I would never be able to honestly tell him everything that I needed to tell him.
Besides, I'm just not good at talking about what bothers me, as you learned today. I can write it down in the snap of a finger, but revealing my thoughts face to face with a total uncaring stranger that I have to pay by the hour to listen to me just does nothing for me but make me resent Tim, even more. He was the crazy one and there I was talking to a shrink! Oh the irony of life!
I know that I will not just suddenly forget everything that happened, but I did come up with a game plan that includes prayer, keeping busy, surrounding myself with positive people, participating in positive activities, and taking better care of myself. My plan should not be that difficult because already my life is returning to a somewhat normal routine: work, family, friends, exercising, volunteering in the community, an occasional date and my favorite hobby, writing.
Right now, one of my closest friends is Anthony, a good looking hunk of a man, a police officer, who practically saved my life. He wants more than friendship, but I am still not so sure about that. I enjoy spending time with him though; he makes me laugh, we have intense conversations, we share a lot of hugs and kisses and I am definitely attracted to him, but for several reasons, I am just not ready for anything serious with him.
Instead, I am all tied up in knots over Clayton, a mysteriously intriguing man, a corporate attorney that I met at a casino this summer. My love life has a miniscule spark of hope, because I know that he likes me. (Wow, that sounds childish, doesn't it?) Anyway, Clayton and I have spent precious little time together and become very familiar with each other, if you know what I mean.
The only things keeping of our single long stemmed red rose of a relationship from blossoming into a full grown rose bush is the 275 miles between us and his time consuming career. Not only is he a workaholic, but he loses himself in his work to the point that he allows himself to drown in it. When he comes up for air, he devotes very little time to our "relationship," if that's what it could be called.
The pathetic part of it is that right after the incident with Tim, I started wanting to be with Clayton desperately. I cherished every little particle of time that we spent together. We would talk for a few minutes on the phone and I thought about the conversation for the rest of the day and night, picking apart every word he said.
It was hard for me to understand. Clayton was mostly unavailable, but he was the one who I wanted to be with. Anthony was totally available, but he didn't interest me nearly as much as Clayton did. I surmised that, for some reason, I was attracted to complication, mess, difficulty, challenges, and hardship. I'm tired of writing. Thinking about this as I write it down is making my head hurt! I hope that this is enough for our second session.
Chapter Two
Distortions Of Reality
Sitting in a large comfortable dark purple chair in a dimly lit office, I explained nervously, "I have been having nightmares, flashbacks and distortions of reality." I hugged myself as my words seemed to just hang in the air. The walls were beige, such a subdued wall color for an office like this. I would suggest vivid red or bright lavender. A huge vibrant multicolored painting reached out and grabbed my attention. Dr. Lanita Branson said something to me, but I had already tuned her out. Her words were floating out of her mouth, through the air, past her large oak coffee table and straight into my right ear as I stared at the blend of turquoise, gold, purple, burgundy, lime and dark green splashed throughout the painting.
It occurred to me at that moment that the painting served as her inspiration for decorating this office. My eyes moved around and picked up the subtle dedications to the gold framed artwork: the purple chair, of course, a burgundy sofa, gold lamps, turquoise pillows, and several green plants. Dr. Branson was saying something to me, but I looked right through her and noticed a small gold framed picture of her family. I looked back at her and smiled. She wrote something on her notepad and looked at me with a small crease in her forehead and wide eyes that were filled with concern.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I asked as I uncrossed my arms and relaxed them on the chair. Before giving her a chance to answer, "I was just admiring your painting and the way your office is decorated," I announced with hopes that she would reconsider whatever she just wrote. Her eyes did scan the latest entry on her legal sized yellow notepad, but she did not erase it or mark through it. Damn! She is going to think I am unfocused or agitated. Pay attention Amina!
This is why I switched from Dr. Sandoval to her. I felt that she would be more understanding and not so analytical when I talked to her. Another plus, she was a black woman; maybe she could help me deal with this mess from that perspective. I looked at her smooth cappuccino colored skin and natural hair style. Any woman who can wear their hair twisted up like that has to be confident and sure. She will probably totally understand what I am going through just from reading that first entry and she will be able to figure out exactly what I need to do to get over this. I kept breathing deeply and forcing myself to relax. I had to, because judging from her body language, she was psychoanalyzing me just as much as Dr. Sandoval did. At least she wasn't as ugly as he was.
When would be a good time to mention to her that I did not think she would work as my therapist either? Perhaps on the way out? I had to bring up the subject before I left her office today, because I thought that I was going to be able to write my feelings in the journal and skip this sitting on the couch and talking about it. This was not working for me. I had only written a few pages in the journal and it was such a pathetic entry that I was ashamed to even show it to her. Damn, I hate this! How much longer would this session last? I am so ready to go!
"What do you mean by distortions of reality?" You're a doctor and you don't know? The term came straight from the fact sheet that Dr. Reeves gave me about post traumatic stress disorder. She had her pen ready. I looked at her French manicured nails and thought back to the first time I visited and talked to her. She put her tape recorder on the table and that made me feel completely uncomfortable. I kept staring at it and carefully planning every word that I said. At the end of our session, she asked me if I felt nervous and I told her how the tape recorder made me feel.
She said, "I understand. I will not use it again." Now she's taking meticulous notes! Again, I do not even want to say a word! I can not very well tell her that the sight of her taking notes is uncomfortable for me too! She has to do her job. Relax girl. It is not a big deal! She's a doctor. She's probably had to deal with much worse than your little agitations.
I inhaled deeply and said, "Distortions, you know, like I could be talking to you and your voice changes and your face warps into something else." Dr. Branson looked at me calmly and wrote on her notepad. Oh shit! I better fix this!
"I know it is not real. It's my mind playing tricks on me," I blurted out nervously with an involuntary shrug of my shoulders.
"Did you just have a distortion of reality a few minutes ago?" Is this bitch trying to be sarcastic? She was busy writing. I looked at her head which was full of tightly coiled black, orange, brown and burgundy twists that looked like the rotini pasta that I like to eat with marinara sauce and parmesan cheese. Speaking of which, I'm hungry. I think I saw an Italian restaurant on the way over here. Shit! I'm doing it again. She snapped her head up, pressed her lips together firmly and looked at me just as I was staring right at her hair. Shit! How long did my answer take that time?
"No, I just zoned out a few minutes ago. It only happens when I am really tired or really stressed out," I lied. Why am I lying to this woman? I need to tell her the truth so she can help me get through this mess! But I don't want her thinking that I'm cuckoo crazy!
"How often are you really tired or really stressed?" Ok, so repeating my words back to me; is this a technique used by all shrinks? Dr. Sandoval did it too. It is starting to really piss me off!
"About once or twice a week," I lied again. Next, she'll be asking me if I'm hallucinating or hearing voices.
"Are you sleeping better now that you are taking the sleeping pills that I prescribed?" she asked after scribbling on the pad.
"Yes, I am sleeping a little better now," I lied again. I have not taken a single pill and I do not plan to either. I hate taking pills and I surely want to be in control of my sleep patterns and habits. How many people are addicted to pills these days? I pressed my lips together softly and braced for the next question. I tried not to move otherwise because I knew she was reading my body language just as much as I was reading hers.
"Are you having any other distortions of reality, like seeing things that aren't there, or hearing voices of people who aren't there?" Ok, it's official, this bitch thinks I'm cock-a-doodle doo, cuckoo, loony toony, needs a strait jacket, padded room and mind altering medication crazy.
"No." I answered, this time honestly. I watched as she wrote something quickly then raised her eyes to look at me through burgundy rimmed glasses. She leaned forward.
"How often do you think about him?" she asked quietly as she looked directly into my right eye. My eyes blinked without my permission because I could not hold her gaze and I could not lie. Fumbling with my blouse, I took a deep breath and finally spilled the truth. Yes, I still think about him, a lot. A part of me has not accepted the fact that he is dead and gone and can not hurt me anymore. A part of me is still scared of him and is fearful that he will appear at any moment to knock me down and choke me until I am unconscious.
No, I can not sleep, but I do not want to take any pills. He waits for me in my dreams, so the best I can do is sleep until the nightmares begin and then wake from it. Sleeping pills won't allow that to happen. The biggest part of me is filled with guilt that a man, however terrible, is dead, died a horrible painful death; and it was exactly what I wished for. She stopped writing and started listening and shaking her head as if in agreement, so I kept talking and finally told her everything that I had been holding inside: deep, dark, ugly secrets—things that no one should ever know.
In just a few short weeks, I had turned into a totally different person doing things that I never imagined I would do. I was in rebellion mode and it felt good. When she finally started taking notes again, I was too exhausted to even care. Although I felt weak as I left her office, I decided that I would make another appointment for next month. So far, seeing her biweekly was too much. I could probably handle this better once a month. The tears waited until the elevator door closed then they started falling like rain.
Dr. Branson,
First of all, I hope you do not read what I write in here and try to diagnose me with some type of severe mental illness. I hope I can be honest in this journal without the fear of any repercussions. If someone knocks on my door and I look out to see two men in white, one with his hands behind his back concealing the little jacket with sleeves that are connected to straps, I'll never forgive you for paying such close attention to every word I write and every word I say!
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Never Say Never by Amy Johnson Copyright © 2012 by Amy Johnson. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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