🎧 Chapter Twenty-Seven | Needled, Rattled, Rebellious
Masking Trauma: A Mother's Tightrope Walk Between Past and Present
What you need to know:
Jennifer relates the story of meeting Rick, not romantically, but as a patient. Going to him—an expert on healing trauma with natural methods—she details events of the past and how they’ve started troubling her sleep with vivid images and her daytime hours with strange sense-memories. Diagnosed with PTSD by Dr. Rick, she reluctantly agrees to treatment though she knows something is off about him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Needled, Rattled, Rebellious
They are a jumble, these thoughts. You think, Okay, I’ve finally got them lined up and organized. I know what came before and after. It makes complete sense. But it’s a lie. A crazy-making fantasy. Thoughts aren’t slips of paper, widgets, or ingredients from which to make a meal. Thoughts are wind. Currents. Spinning wisps. You know this. You do. You’ve studied the “idea” of thought for hours, days, weeks, months, years. You took pages upon pages of notes in piles upon piles of journals while great masters explained how thoughts are the source of all human misery.
Tame them, your great teachers said. Tame those useless thoughts. And you tried, but now you are alone in an exam room, tripping into a thought-maze.
You race forward.
You stop short.
You turn to see where you got lost.
Dr. Rick had you remove your shoes, tapped two needles into the softest indentation of your ankles.
“Trauma points,” he called them.
The needles hurt like bee stings. And, now it begins.
“Close your eyes for a while,” Dr. Rick had said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
Door opened.
Door closed.
Fingers interwoven on your stomach.
Complete chaos in your brain.
Inside your thought maze now, you replay the last twenty minutes. Each gesture. Each word. What did you tell Dr. Rick to give him the idea you had PTSD?
Nothing. You told him nothing.
Oh sure, a few details of “the incident” but none of it provable. There’s no video. No witnesses. Besides, “The memories of children cannot be relied upon.” Who said that again? Some therapist on the radio? A cop, back when you were an investigative reporter working the crime beat?
No matter.
Someone of merit said it so it must be true.
A lack of hard evidence corrupts the memory of your past, distorts it, convinces you it never happened. It couldn’t have happened. You can will it from not happening. You can pretend you were never in that room with that guy…
The door to the exam room opened.
“How are we doing?” Dr. Rick asked, looking down at you from the end of the exam table.
It is winter inside your bones. “Good. Fine,” you hear your voice saying, that slight quiver around the word “fine.”
“Great,” Dr. Rick said. One. Two. He plucked the needles from your ankles, the needles you didn’t want. He tossed them into the sharps container. They rattled. Plastic against plastic.
You feel like a punctured balloon. Deflated.
Dr. Rick reached for your hand. You gave it to him. He tugged you up upright to sit on the table. Your feet dangled over the edge.
“I want to see you next week,” he said. “Same time. Same day of the week. The treatments will be more effective that way.”
You bobbed your head like sure. Of course. Next week.
“Perfect,” Dr. Rick said, rested a hand on your shoulder.
You looked at it there. It was heavy. Like a rock. Get it off, you thought. Get away from me.
“I’ll see you next week,” he said.
“Yeah,” you said. “Next week.”
I pulled into the roundabout at the kids’ school, Mother Maya Montessori, and worked like crazy to restore a semblance of my mom-self which was my best-self. I’m fine, I thought. I’m going to be fine. Just focus. Just be…here…now.
Mother Maya was a series of single-story, cheaply constructed buildings painted a drab gray and surrounded by an open field ringed by pines. Mother Maya, run by a local order of nuns, wasn’t much to look at but I liked the place. They taught the kids how to grow their own food. Took several nature trips a year. Attended church. The kids were five and nine at this time.
Jo, lead the way up the walkway to the car and wore a pink sequined top, orange jeans, and a plush purple poncho. Behind her, Spencer wore a baggy t-shirt that hung long over a pair of sweatpants with elastic bottoms stuffed into his athletic socks. My fashionista. My geek.
Reaching around his sister, Spencer opened the door, and took hold of Jo’s elbow.
“Stop it,” Jo said, yanking free. “Mom! Tell him to stop shoving.”
“I’m not.”
“You are too! He is mom.”
I leaned between the seats, took hold of Jo’s hand, and helped her into the rig. Once up, she tossed a macaroni art creation into the front passenger seat.
“It’s a snake,” she said but without conviction. She looked pale. Tired.
“Are you catching a bug?” I asked, mom-radar turned up to high.
“I don’t know,” she said, dropped into her car seat, and swiped her arm under her nose.
Spencer, in next, pulled the door closed with a slam, and hugged his book bag to his chest.
“Go, Mom! Go,” he said like we we’re in the midst of a heist and eye’d the nun on the walkway who stood as immovable as a concrete post. I called her Sister-Stop-Watch for how she timed each car and would get snippy if any one took too long.
On the drive home they told me about their day and I passed them juice boxes and raisins from inside my purse while inhaling through my nose, and out through my mouth like they taught me on retreats. Calm. Keep calm.
Soon enough, I turned into the drive of our house.
“Home again, home again, jiggety-jig,” I sang, turned into the drive of what we called The Feather House for all the birds that flocked to our feeders. Wrens, robins, finches, jays, crows.
“Home again, home again,” they both sang back.
We all loved that house. Jo. Spencer. Me. It was painted a bright yellow with red trim. Fenced backyard. Three bedrooms. One bath. Full basement. Updated kitchen. Detached garage. The Feather House was charming and it was mine. Or would be mine after twenty more years of payments.
“Can we hot tub?” Spencer asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Last one in is a rotten egg.”
Belts unbuckled, doors flung wide, the kids scrambled out. Spencer pulled off his t-shirt, threw it over his head, kicked off shoes, and tossed socks.
“No fair! No fair!” Jo yelled, doing the same.
“It’s totally fair,” he said. “You don’t even wear a bathing suit.”
They dashed into the house, the echoes of their shouts.
Rummaging in the back seat, I kept up the breathing and collected book bags, Jo’s pasta art, empty juice and raisin boxes, then locked up the car. My head hurt. My vision blurred.
Just carry on, I told myself. You’ve got this. You’re home.
In the yard, I picked up their abandoned clothing, nudged the lid off the hot tub. Inside, clean, clear, hot water swirled. I elbowed the on button and bubbles gurgled into action.
Jo sped out the back door, then across the deck wearing only a pair of Strawberry Shortcake panties. “Come on, Mom,” she said, tagged my hip with a slap. “You’re losing.”
“True. True. I’m a rotten egg,” I said.
Spencer hopped out the door, yanking up his trunks. “She isn’t racing!” Spencer said to Jo. “Mom, you aren’t, are you?” Then he stopped. “Can I help?”
“No, no,” I said, though I could have used it. “Go have fun. But give me your glasses.”
Jo jumped into the water with a splash, threw her arms high. “I win!”
Spencer’s shoulders sagged.
“Give her this one,” I said, voice low. “And play nice.”
I quoted a movie we often watched about how to be the better man, even when you wanted to be petty. But in truth, I was kind of hyper vigilant about him being older and the importance of being kind, rather than a bully. My own brother had been one but that was another story…
Jo, strutting it up now, moonwalked in the hot tub. “Winner. Winner,” she said. “I’m a winner.”
“Okay, we get it,” I said to her and to Spence. “I’m going to get changed and make a call I’ll be down in five minutes.”
Spence trudged down the steps, then across the grass. “Let’s try a new game,” he said to his sister.
Distributing their things in their rooms, I jogged up the narrow steps, dropped my purse on the chair next to my desk, pulled out my phone, and continued down a narrow hall to my attic bedroom. Hitting dial, I pressed the speaker button, and slid the phone on the dresser. The number rang several times, clicked to a machine.
“Hi! This is Tony, Sophie, and Nipper,” the message began. “We’re not in but leave your name and number. We’ll call you back.” The dog Nipper barked. Then a beep.
Tony was an awkward, goofy-looking guy with enormous ears. He was earthy though. Real. I liked him a lot.
On our retreats in the mountains of Colorado, we used to joke about the more earnest attendees with names like Diamond, Mist, Winter, Spring. Then he met Sophie—a curvaceous Sufi dancer with lush, full lips. Now they were getting married. We hardly saw each other anymore. He was being absorbed into her world. Her way of doing things. Her life. That was fine. I wasn’t into him, or anyone. I just liked Tony. I trusted him.
“Tony, this is Jennifer,” I said on the recording while also tugging off my clothes and then pulling on my swimsuit. “Saw your guy, Dr. Rick, today, but….”
I swiped the phone off the dresser, hurried out of my room. Jogging down the narrow steps, I felt unsure how to explain. “Why don’t you call me back when you can,” I finally said. At the linen closet, I grabbed three towels. “I’ll be in all night. And tomorrow.”
Hurrying into the kitchen, I closed the phone and tossed it on the counter. It skittered alongside the toaster.
That evening after dinner, the kids played a game of Twister with their own rules. Jo sorted herself over the red and yellow dots. Spencer arranged himself on green and blue. I washed the dishes, hands deep in soapy water and finally felt more…together.
A metallic sound quivered along the counter.
“Mom!” Spencer said. “The phone!” He stood with his feet wide on the mat, arms out for balance.
I scooped up a towel, dried my hands, then dislodged the phone from behind the toaster.
“Sorry to call so late,” Tony said.
“Since when do you apologize for calling late?” I asked, dusting crumbs off the screen.
“Well, Sophie says it’s late. She’s teaching me manners. So? That was a weird message.”
I leaned into the doorway, watching the like a cop on the beat, and detailed my appointment. “No herbs. He used needles.”
“What points?” Tony asked.
“Points?”
“Where did they go in? Back? Arms? Toes?”
“Ankles.”
“Outside? Inside?”
“Outside.”
“Yin. Kidney.” He sounded so confident. So knowledgable.
Spencer, on all fours now, arched his back like a Halloween cat. Jo noodled under him, reached her foot onto a red dot.
“There’s something else….” I said but on Tony’s end, Sophie called, “Babe? Where is…?” Tony covered the phone, spoke to her in a muffled voice.
“How do you feel now?” he asked, back on the line.
“Weird. Light-headed.”
“Totally normal. Give it twenty-four hours. See how you feel tomorrow.”
“Babe,” Sophie said again.
Once more, Tony covered the mouthpiece. More muffled sounds.
“Sorry about that,” Tony said, “we have some people coming over. Sophie says I shouldn’t be commenting on your treatment anyway. ‘I’m the student. He’s the master,’ she said. I guess that’s true. My best advice is to follow his lead. Trust him.”
“Babe?” Sophie said again. The woman was relentless.
“Got to go,” Tony said.
“Yeah. Go.” I shut the phone and set it aside on the counter, scooping up the crumbs into my palm while also gathering the few crumbs of advice: Trust him. And, Follow his lead.
I tossed the crumbs into the sink. Meanwhile, in the living room, Josephine rolled Spencer into the Twister mat. His eyes were closed tight, his arms trapped at his sides.
“You’re a mummy,” Jo said. “You’re a mummy now.”
“Boo,” Spencer said, wiggled free and flung the mat off.
Jo scrambled up, ran for her room, laughing with a high, wild sound.
Spencer, out of the mat, chased after. “I’m going to get you,” he said.
“Ahhh,” she yelled with a mix of terror and delight.
I almost called out, “Hey, go easy,” but it wasn’t bullying yet. It wasn’t out of hand. They we’re having fun.
Next:
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ch’i
In a surprising turn, the voices haunting Jennifer vanish. Returning to the state clinic for a second appointment, Jennifer decides to ask questions to better understand Dr. Rick and his process.
