I feel like a baby sometimes and completely a fool for not recovering faster. There are times I feel brave when I travel to visit my parents, and yet when I arrive, I know I’m anything but as my dad always waits for me on the porch so I can safely move from my car to the house. He’s worried and overprotective, and I allow it.
Frankie refuses to indulge me in such things. She also thinks my dad is enabling me, and she’s probably not wrong. They have a classic good cop/bad cop juxtaposition, and I appreciate both of them for it. I need Frankie pushing me, and I need my dad treating me with care.
Despite my limitations, I’ve actually come a long way. For the first month after the attack, I wouldn’t leave my house for anything. I had Jameson install the security system that very first week. I made Frankie stay at my house for two weeks after that and fought daily panic attacks once she left.
I’m not a stupid woman by any means, and I knew I was suffering from PTSD, so I started therapy. I’m very big into sound mental health and was not embarrassed by my fears, even if they felt irrational at times.
Therapy helped a great deal, and I started to improve. Taking trips with Frankie or my parents to the gym and grocery store were huge victories. Because my conscience demanded I do it, I went back to Phoenix. My parents traveled with me for peace of mind, but I went to visit Baden Oulett in the rehab hospital. He was broken, paralyzed, and barely acknowledged me. I brought a stupid plant and didn’t stay more than ten minutes. It was such a crushing visit, doing nothing to soothe my guilt but rather increase it tenfold. As such, I suffered a huge setback when we returned to Pittsburgh. It was another month before I could go out of my house again.
My current issues go deeper than the terrifying thought that I might be attacked. My therapist consistently reminds me that those fears will get better as I realize the chances of it happening again are slim, but I must work to overcome the debilitating guilt I’m carrying over what happened to my rescuer. Even thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach. I’m not supposed to shy away from the memories but rather confront them.
After an initial struggle to free me from two of the three men, Baden had slung me away from the group and yelled at me to run.
So I did.
I had no purse, no cell phone to call for help—those were stripped away immediately by my attackers—so by the time I made it down another block and flagged someone and we were able to get police help, the evil criminals had fled and left a battered, half-dead man sprawled on bloodied concrete. I’ll never forget the image of Baden lying there like a broken marionette while a police officer rendered aid until the ambulance arrived.
The guilt was immediate, oppressive, and suffocating as I watched, and I could feel the walls closing in on me. Closing in so hard, it was just easier to stay within those metaphorical walls—which eventually morphed into the physical walls of my house—so I could be safe and not have to deal with anything on the outside.
Even thinking about it now makes my chest heavy.
Sometimes, I’ll dream of that day, and it’s not the horror of being slapped and shoved around by those men who took my purse and who clearly wanted more from me. It was the sounds of them beating Baden as I ran away that yank me out of sleep with a silent scream on my lips and tears pouring down my face. I want to crawl into a hole and hide from the world, because I’m a coward of the worst variety.
I should have stayed to help him.
I never should’ve run.
Jolting out of those memories, I realize I’m standing in my kitchen with no recollection of making those last few steps from the stairway to here. I glance out the back-door window; the cat is nowhere in sight. No need to shoo him away.
My phone rings at that moment—from my boss’s number—so I place my cup on the counter and connect the call.
“Hi, James,” I greet cordially.
“I know we have a four p.m. Zoom meeting, but this can’t wait,” he says crisply. He’s the type who’s all business during work hours. I’ve never hung out with him outside of work, so I have no clue if he loosens up.
“That’s okay. What’s up?”
“Sharon was in an automobile accident this morning and broke her leg pretty bad. She’s going to need surgery.”
“That’s awful,” I gasp. That sounds horrendously painful.
“I know,” he grumbles. “She has training set up for the next three days. We can reschedule today’s training, but you’re going to have to cover the remainder.”