Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95393 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95393 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
I nod at her, walking toward the open brown door in the corner, stepping in, and closing it behind me. “Hello, Koda,” Dr. Mendes says to me, her face beaming with a smile. “How are you doing?” She walks around her desk to greet me. “Please, have a seat wherever you want.” She points at the couch she has in the corner or the single chair beside it.
“Hi,” I reply softly, going to the couch and sitting down, “I’m doing…” I take a breath and let the tears come. This is my safe space. “Just dropped the kids off at school.”
“It’s a big day,” she notes softly, going to sit in another single chair that faces the couch. “First day of school is emotional on a whole other level.”
I nod at her. “It really is.” I wipe the tears away. “I know them being in school is going to be good. I know they need it, but I’m…” I try to think of the words. “I think I’m feeling lost.”
“Well, you’ve had a roller coaster the last three months,” she points out. “It’s like you are constantly on the go to make sure the kids don’t feel like they are missing out on anything, and now it’s slowed down, and they have gotten off, but you are still on there waiting.”
During one of my insomnia nights in the beginning, I spent a long time on the internet searching for things about how to go on after losing your loved one. The most mentioned was seeking help, so I called the top name and came to Dr. Mendes. We had a phone call before anything to see if we meshed well, and I loved her from the get-go. The first meeting with her was a rough one because all I did was sob. Literally sobbed for a whole hour. I think maybe I got out five words, but she just sat there knowing this was what I needed, and in the end, I really did. Especially since I never shed a tear in front of the kids, being free to do this with her, knowing no one was going to catch me, was freeing in a way. “Yeah,” I say, sitting back and playing with the white paper coffee cup in my hand.
“What else is on your mind?” she asks, looking from me to my hands nervously trying to stay busy.
“There is this big event this Friday with Benji’s team,” I admit to her.
“And are you going?” She looks at me, and I take a deep breath.
“I don’t know if I should,” I say softly.
“And why shouldn’t you?” she asks.
“Because I’m still furious with them,” I snap. “I’m so fucking pissed that they helped him lead the life he did.”
“Did they really help him?” Her voice never goes up or down.
“I mean, they didn’t put a stop to it.” I shrug. “Then again, neither did I.” The guilt of not speaking up before he died is always the last thing I think about before I drift off to sleep and the first thing I think about when I wake up. If I have a minute to spare during the day, it’s there like a nagging thought. What did you do to help him? It’s the loaded question that runs through my mind. It also guilts me that I have no answer to that question. Or better yet, the answer to that question is nothing. I did nothing to help him, just like they did.
“Benji is the only one who was responsible for what happened. Not you, his teammates, his father, or your girls. He was the one who made the decision each time he took those drugs.” She’s one thousand percent right. No one could have helped Benji if he didn’t want it.
“It’s a disease,” I try to defend him, but even I know.
“Yes, it is. And people get help every single day.” She leans forward. “When they want to.”
“It’s going to be fucking awkward,” I finally say. “Like everyone is going to be there with their family, and then it’s the sad widow and his kids.”
“Have they treated you differently?” I shake my head at the question. “And if Benji was still here, would you go?”
“Well, I’m not sure.” I stop there. “I mean, I’m sure the kids would go with him, but I’m not sure I would. The kids would love it.”
“This is your new normal,” she reminds me. “You can either stay home and wallow in the grief or—”
“Or?” I respond right away. “Whatever the or is, I choose or.” She laughs at me. “For the girls, I’ll suck it up, and worst case”—I smirk—“it’ll be a three-session week. And you’ll see me every second day.”
“We can work with that.” She nods at me, and the rest of the hour is spent planning how I’m going to start to take back my life, or at least try.