“He said that?” I nodded as she handed me a biscuit. “What do you think?” I shrugged, but really, I hadn’t thought about anything else. I overreacted and a night of internet searching told me that I was juggling the symptoms of struggling with heavy loss and complicated grief. “Skye, can I be honest with you?”
“Oh fuck.” I put a cushion over my face and slowly peered at her from behind it.
“I think he’s got a point,” she said, pulling the cushion away with a smile. “What you went through was trauma, one that anyone would struggle to come to terms with.” She took my hand in hers and I needed that contact so much. “You’re no good with change and is it any wonder? Look at how many you’ve had in your life and, sweetheart, just consider all the loss. Not just Elliott, but your parents leaving, your grandma, your childhood. You stepped up for Elliott when you were only young yourself.” She smiled, hanging back, watching my reaction. I listened, didn’t make a sound. “And the trauma of finding him.” She dropped her eyes, collected herself. Along with Will, she’d seen me at my lowest point more times than I could count. “How does anyone ever come to terms with that?”
“I thought I was doing OK,” I replied honestly as she took my hands in hers. “I just needed to…get on. Forget it. Keep busy. Throwing myself into other things calmed the chaos in my head.”
“I understand,” she said, now passing me the plate of biscuits, not just one. “But essentially, you’re putting a plaster over a gaping wound.”
“I have to, Stace. It’s…survival.”
“But it isn’t working. You’re closing yourself off to people.” She hesitated. “Take your friendships.”
“What do you mean?”
“How many friends do you have?” I narrowed my eyes and scoffed but bloody hell, I knew where she was going with this. “I mean good ones. Ones that matter.”
“What kind of question is that?” She tipped her head, cutting the bullshit. “Well, there’s you and…Will.”
“What about long term relationships?”
I took a second to think and couldn’t come up with anything. Damn it. “None worth noting.”
“Why’s that?”
“They leave. Like everyone in my life,” I replied taken by surprise as she shook her head.
“They don’t leave, Skye, you push them away.”
“That’s not true,” I said, trying to object, but as I thought through the string of dates I called relationships, I realised she was right. I’d ended every single one. They started getting close, so I pushed them away before they pushed me.
Survival.
She took her phone from her pocket and started tapping the screen before handing it to me. “I want you to read this. It makes a lot of sense. I was interviewing someone recently for an article about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after serving in the military. She talked a lot about triggers and how one touch, one smell, one memory can take her right back to the frontline.” I started reading. “It made me think of you.”
“How?”
“Your reactions,” she replied. “Pushing people away or keeping them at a distance because you fear you’ll be hurt.”
I continued reading the article Stacey had given me on her phone.
Self-sabotage is a form of self-harm. When someone has experienced a particularly painful loss, forming close relationships is difficult. Survival mode kicks in and there continues to be a spiral of meaningless relationships, ones that usually end by the trauma victim pushing closeness away, before they’re hurt again.
Putting my hand across my mouth I glanced at Stace. Fuck, it was like reading an article about me.
“I think you’ve always loved Will; you just knew it was easier for you to handle if you kept things purely platonic,” she said. “Less chance of heartbreak.”
Survival.
And snap, it all fell into place.
It was a liberating feeling, admitting to myself that I needed help but also a mixture of relief and pure terror. Relief that things were starting to make sense in the wildness of my thought processes and terror at knowing I was going to have to take the shaky first steps to address them. If I wanted to keep hold of the people that mattered, I knew I had to get help.
“The night you took your relationship with Will to the next step, you sent me a text message,” Stacey said, “do you remember?”
“No,” I replied, noting that everything was blur after that night. She gently took her phone and quickly turned the screen back to me.
Skye: You know the whole sex will ruin what I have with Will thing? I was wrong. It hasn’t ruined us. It’s lifted us.
“A little reminder of how you were feeling,” she said, smiling. “Just call me your anchor.”
“I’ll call you my fucking Yoda.”
She laughed and it woke Reg with a grunt. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I replied, reaching over for a hug. “See, I can say it! I’m not completely fucked up!”
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, holding my hand. “I only want the best for you and although it took me a while to come around to you and Will as a couple, I know he was made for you. I just wish you could see it too.’
“I need a break from my head,” I replied, confusion clouding everything. I remembered the euphoria of that night, the feeling that everything had slotted into place and we were meant to be. That finally there was something good, something that was mine to keep. How quickly did that feeling fade and doubt start to creep back in?
Frighteningly quickly.
“Tell me you’ll think about getting some help.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a card. “This is a bereavement service based in Brighton.” She handed it to me. “They have a helpline.” I rolled my eyes. “Hey! It could be a good place to start.”
“I need to think about it,” I replied, “think about what I want.” I was overwhelmed and exhausted and
