Haven Bound

1. Chelsea

1

Chelsea

There must be some part of me that secretly enjoys being tortured. And not just any torture, but self-inflicted torture. That has to be why every other week I willingly participate in these sessions.

Don’t get me wrong, I have an amazing therapist, but I’m thankful that I only have to deal with these appointments twice a month. The funny thing is, I decided to start therapy because I felt like my anxiety was spinning out of control, and yet sitting here on this oddly comfortable couch does nothing aside from make me anxious.

The room is decorated in a minimalist style with varying neutral tones. A few small plants are scattered on dark wooden shelves along the wall, and there’s some soft meditative music filling the otherwise quiet room. The small couch meant for patients is decorated with a few plush pillows and a soft throw blanket draped over the back. All of these things are designed to encourage a feeling of relaxation, but that’s not one of the emotions currently coursing through my body.

Living in a city like Haven Beach, it can be hard to find a therapist that you vibe with. Especially when you ask around for recommendations and everyone that you talk to seems to have a different opinion on who is "the best". When I first considered the idea of seeking help from a professional, I thought about finding someone who would offer telephone appointments.

Unfortunately, I’m the type of person who needs to be held accountable. Having a therapist that I only speak to on the phone would make it all too easy for me to cancel appointments at the last minute.

For the record, I hate it when people cancel plans at the last minute or show up late. But there are times when I’m really not in any mood to discuss all of my childhood trauma or the issues it has caused in my life.

Like today, I’d much rather be at work diving into a new recipe—the one that I have for salted caramel chocolate chip cookies has been calling my name lately. Instead, I’m sitting here, alternating between picking at my fingernails and drumming my fingers against my thighs while Dr. Harper sits calmly with her notepad balanced in her lap.

“During our last session, we discussed the possibility of you confronting your mother about the things that happened when you were a child. Have you given it any more thought?" she asks, jumping right in.

My breaths feel like they’re coming too quickly. I can’t tell if my body is actually vibrating or if it’s just the feeling of my heart erratically thumping in my chest.

I’ve always wondered how different my life would be if the one thing that defines me and haunts me, had never happened. But I guess that’s one of the downfalls of life. We have no true way of knowing how our lives could have been. There’s no way to go back in time and undo the things that have happened to us or the choices we’ve made.

"I feel like all I've done is think about it, I just don't know what good it would do. As an adult, I know she wasn't fully in control of her mind back then, but the child inside of me…" I let my voice drift off as visions of my mother's blank stare momentarily flood my mind. Shaking them away, I continue, "The child inside of me feels like her mother abandoned her. She failed to take care of me when I needed her the most."

As far back as I can remember, it’s just been my mom and I. My dad reached his breaking point and left when I was four years old, no longer able to put up with Mom’s constant mood swings and the abuse that would sometimes follow. He’s always made it a point to stay in touch, and there’s never been a time when I felt like I couldn’t rely on him. But there was only so much he could do while living a plane ride away. My mom, on the other hand, has never been a very reliable person. Though, I can’t place too much blame on her, knowing that she battles a mental illness she has no control over.

"I know that when she's stable and the medication is working the way it should she's an amazing person. She's so full of life and laughter and can so easily bring a smile to a stranger's face. But…" This is the part that hurts the most. I have so many incredible memories of my mom and I going on road trips and traveling to new places together. I wish with all of my being those memories outweighed the bad.

I take a deep breath and wring my palms together, my mind fighting to chase back the nightmares threatening to take hold as I gather my thoughts. "When her medication needs to be adjusted, something misfires in her mind and she becomes a diluted version of the woman she's meant to be. I know that she does better when she has someone in her life who can be there for her daily. A partner who can make sure she's doing the things she's supposed to do in order to stay healthy. "

Dr. Harper lets out a soft hum as she listens, her head bobbing in a slow nod. "And how do you feel like she has been lately? During our last session you mentioned that she has been stable for quite some time now."

I know it's her job to pull information from me and get me to dive deep into my mind, but there are times when I second-guess my desire to seek out a therapist. Times like today when I feel like the sessions do more harm than good.

Growing up, there always seemed to be a revolving door of men coming and going in our lives. I’m sure some of them were kind and friendly, but they aren’t the ones who left a lasting impact on my life.

The men I remember, the ones who flash through my mind like an old soundless black-and-white film are the men who were born with tainted souls. Men who would yell and scream at me simply because they could. Men who would make inappropriate comments about my body. Men who couldn’t seem to walk past me without touching my body in some way.

But the worst one, the one who haunts me and turns so many of my dreams into nightmares seemed so kind and perfect in the beginning. During the first few months of him dating my mom, it had felt like he could be the piece that was missing from our lives. He was always so full of jokes and wanting to take us on fun adventures.

All of that changed as soon as their vows were exchanged.

"She's been doing really well lately, but that can change at any given moment. Her medication being stable doesn't mean that her emotions don't sometimes run wild. As much as I want to talk to her about what happened during those years she was married to Dan, I don't think I'd be able to handle her crying over it."

I was ten years old the first time my body was covered in bruises, left there by a man I was supposed to be able to trust. Ten years old the first time one of my school friends questioned why I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt in the middle of a hundred-and-five-degree summer. By the time I was twelve, I had learned that I couldn’t trust my mother to stand up for me. I couldn’t trust her to protect me the way a parent is supposed to.

As much as I want to stay here in this room, in the present, it’s damn near impossible to keep my mind from allowing the nightmares to take hold...

“You stupid, worthless girl.” My stepfather’s bruising grip on my upper arm holds me in place as his booming voice causes my ears to ring. His words hardly register as I hold my breath and wince through the pain. “It’s your fault that your mother and I are getting a divorce. It’s your fucking fault that she’s leaving me!” His six-foot-something gigantic frame is hovering over me as his large hand completely wraps around my arm. His dull fingernails are pressing into my skin, threatening to break the surface with the force he’s applying.

“Let go of me!” I scream back at him. Tears threaten to blur my vision as I suck in a breath and try to pull my arm free from his grip, which only causes him to pull my body against his before he’s shoving me away from him. My back hits the corner of the wall, a scream escaping me as the impact causes a large picture frame to fall from its place on the wall and shatter against the ground beside me, glass shards scattering across the floor. The tears roll freely down my cheeks now, blurring my vision as my gaze lands on the shell of a woman sitting on the couch behind him .

My mother’s vacant stare collides with mine, and I know she’s not fully processing what’s happening in front of her. She hasn’t been in a great mental place lately, but right now, I really need her to stand up to her husband and tell him to leave me alone. I need her to call the police. I need her to protect me. She doesn’t. Instead, she continues to sit there and stare at me like she expects me to be the one to do something.

I’m only twelve, and while I’m nowhere near short, Dan Witters is a terrifying freaking giant. Thankfully, he doesn’t reach for me again, but his stare remains fixated on me as I sit on the ground surrounded by shattered glass with tears coating my cheeks, my body thrumming with fear. He turns his back to me and rakes a hand through his silver-streaked hair, deep heaving breaths shuddering through him as he turns his focus to my mother.

My upper body feels wrecked. My back and shoulders are throbbing from where he slammed me against the wall. With his focus momentarily dragged away from me, I brace my hands against the tiled floor and attempt to push myself to stand. The shards of glass pierce the palms of my hands, and I hiss through the pain, pulling my feet beneath me and forcing myself to stand on trembling legs.

My movement must be enough to haul his attention back to me because he spins around to face me once more, his brows pinching together as he raises his hands in the air and continues to berate me. His loud, booming voice fills the space and clouds my mind, overpowering every ounce of self-preservation that I have and freezing me in place as he screams, “Why are you even still here? I don’t want you here. You’re fucking worthless. You should just hang yourself and be done with it. Nobody would fucking care. I’ll even give you the rope to do it.”

There’s still a part of me that feels as though I’m to blame for my stepfather’s actions. Maybe he never wanted children, yet he unfortunately fell in love with a woman who already had a child. I was simply an obstacle that he needed to be rid of. He was probably hopeful that I’d eventually end up living with my dad.

Unfortunately, at twelve years old, the court system felt that I was old enough to weigh in on the matter when my dad fought my mom for custody. Living with my mom was all I'd ever known. I chose to stay where I had the safety net of my friends, even though it meant remaining within Dan's grasp. At that age, moving away from my friends almost seemed worse than the abuse.

Thankfully, it wasn't long after the traumatic incident with Dan that my mom finally gathered the courage and resources needed for us to escape. We moved to Haven Beach and were able to start a new life, but starting over didn't come without challenges.

There were times when I was able to let loose and just be a kid. Times when I was able to do normal childhood things like have sleepovers with my friends. But I always had to pay close attention to the kind of mood my mom was in. I had to be prepared for the possibility of her having some kind of breakdown at any moment. Having a parent with any kind of disorder is never easy, but I swear it takes a special kind of inner strength to be raised by someone that suffers from a mental illness.

A strength that I’m not so sure I possess. Even now after having lived through it.

“I wouldn't even know how to begin talking to her about everything. Any serious conversation that I have with her just ends in her crying, which leaves me feeling guilty and worse than I did before. It’s probably better to just… not say anything to her about it. It’s not like me talking to her about it is going to change what happened.” The words fall from my mouth so quickly that I’m not sure I was even forming coherent sentences.

When I look back up at this therapist whom I pay to talk me through my problems, her lips are pressed into a tight thin line as she watches me. She keeps her face emotionless as she scribbles something down into the notepad in her lap. She glances back up at me and says, “Chelsea, who is responsible for your mother’s emotions?”

I clear my throat and try to fight back the tears threatening to break free. Reaching over, I pull one of the weighted throw pillows into my lap, trying to ground myself with the added pressure. "Anytime I’ve ever said or done something that caused my mom to get upset, she’d always tell me that I made her upset," I murmur. It’s hard to hear something like that repeatedly throughout your life without letting it sink in and take root.

Despite her being the parent, I’ve always been the one responsible for her.

Dr. Harper pauses for a moment, her eyes scanning over my face and body language. Her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before she says, “You have to remember in those moments that you’re not making her cry. She is responsible for her own reactions. Whether she chooses to express her emotions through anger or sadness, it’s not on you. You can only control and are only responsible for your own reactions.”

I can only control and am only responsible for my own reactions. It's something she's been telling me since my very first session. It' s a mantra that I have to constantly remind myself of when it comes to dealing with my mom.

“Chelsea, this journey is about your healing, not her comfort. Just because having that conversation with her won’t change what happened, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t confront her. Sometimes when you tell people how they’ve let you down, it can help you process those emotions. Yes, she will likely get upset. But the goal here is to help you address your trauma and find a way to live day-to-day without it weighing you down.”

I mull over her words in my mind, letting them sink in for a few quiet moments. Thankfully, she doesn’t push for an immediate response. She simply turns her attention to the notepad sitting in her lap. Her eyes seem to trace over her notes, giving me a moment to process her words. The weighted pillow still sits in my lap, providing a calming pressure.

“Chelsea, sometimes we need to have difficult conversations in order to find peace.” She’s right, but I don’t know that I’ll ever be prepared to have that conversation. Even if I found a way to move past the trauma I’ve experienced because of my mom’s decisions, I don’t know if I would ever be able to forgive her.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her. The ability to string together more words than that seems to have completely vacated my body.

Heaving a sigh, I pull the pillow from my lap and set it down on the couch. I thank her as I stand and grab my cross-body purse off the coffee table where I'd dropped it. Before I can leave, Dr. Harper tells me that she’d also like me to try and find a way to do something that I know will cause an anxious reaction but in a controlled environment where I know that I’m safe. She doesn’t realize how impossible that assignment feels.

She doesn’t know that feeling safe isn’t a luxury I have.