The air has been sucked out of the room, and I can’t find enough oxygen to fill my lungs. I’m suffocating, and I don’t know what to do about it anymore.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Jess. I truly am. You’ve lost so much over the past ten or so years, and I’m not sure you’ve had a chance to fully mourn any of it. It’s going to take time and work, but you’ll eventually get there. I promise.”
I nod, hoping she’s right but also glad she accepted what I told her instead of trying to find the silver lining.
“Have you talked to your physician about seeing if an antidepressant or a medication to help with anxiety could benefit you? Not just for the grief but for your general mental well-being.”
I shake my head.
“Talk to them. See what they say. The right medication might help you better manage everything you’re dealing with. Sometimes therapy alone isn’t enough. And there’s no shame in needing medication that can help you get back on track.” Robyn smiles, reassurance infused into the curve of her mouth.
I nod again, unsure how I feel about what she’s saying. “Okay.”
“And you might want to try using a weighted blanket when you sleep, especially if you’re still having nightmares. Research has shown it can benefit those with PTSD and complex PTSD. The blankets aren’t for everyone, but it might be worth a try.”
I have read about the benefit of weighted blankets. I just wasn’t sure if they were for me. But I guess I’ll never know unless I try one out and see what happens. Maybe I’ll be surprised. “I’ll look into it. Thanks.”
She shifts her notepad on her lap, her reassuring smile not wavering. “Alright. Let’s talk about things you can do to help you process your grief…”
* * *
I’m emotionally drainedby the time Bailey and I leave Robyn’s office. Zara is sitting on a waiting room seat, her attention on her phone.
“Hi?” I say, glancing around for Troy.
“Troy had to get back to the office due to some emergency and asked me to drive you home.” She rises to her feet.
I glance at my phone. There’s nothing from him. No text. No missed call. “Thanks.” I smile even though Troy’s absence sits heavy in my chest. I could really use one of his hugs right now.
Zara drives me to my house and pulls into the driveway. “The protesters finally decided to get a life?” She scans the area as if expecting one to lunge from the trees.
She’s right. No one is on the street or the sidewalk, other than a woman walking her dog. You wouldn’t know that only a few weeks ago almost a hundred people were here chanting and waving signs and trying to get me to leave Maple Ridge.
“Maybe they finally realized they were wrong about me.”
Or chose to stick with just harassing me on social media. That’s fine with me. I avoid those sites. I don’t see their hateful and misguided rhetoric.
I thank Zara for the ride, and Bailey and I go into the house through the front door. The damaging words that were once there are completely invisible under several coats of blue-gray paint.
I have a few hours until Troy is due to come over, so I go upstairs to Amelia’s—I mean, the guest room. I get comfy on the window seat and power up the laptop.
I resume typing where I left off, but instead of Angelique’s story, restlessness hijacks my thoughts. The same restlessness that’s been building for the past few hours.
Robyn reminded me in our session today that I need to focus more on my recovery and doing things I enjoy. I haven’t been able to go hiking or canoeing or practice yoga lately. I haven’t even taken any new photos. My life has been at a standstill since the protesters and media intruded on it. But they’re gone now. I’m no longer a prisoner in my home—I’m only caged by death threats.
“You want to go to the lake?” I ask Bailey. She perks her head up, which I take to be a yes.
The street is empty of parked cars that don’t belong there. No one I need to worry about is standing on the sidewalk. The rain from this morning finished hours ago, and the warmth of the day has dried up the puddles. It’s gorgeous now. Perfect for hanging out at the lake.
Several minutes later, I’m pedaling toward it with Bailey in the trailer. My senses are on high alert, but no one seems to be paying attention as I zoom down the quiet streets.
At the lake, I steer Iris’s rusty old bike past the beach to the start of the trail that circles the water. I lock the bike to the metal rack.
The tangy scent of pine wraps me in a comforting hug, and the chirping of birds from the trees cheers me onward. Robyn was right. I need to get back to doing the things I enjoy.
I pull on my straw hat so my face is less recognizable and shuck on my backpack, my laptop tucked safely inside.
Bailey and I walk along the quiet dirt path, pausing every so often so I can shoot photos with my phone. A chattering squirrel. A lonely wild blossom at the side of the path. The stretch of water reflecting the faded blue sky.
