Page 85 of I Almost Do

Dr. Carlson gives me a moment, patient as she waits.

"I didn't know what I was doing. I just hit him in the back with it. I thought it would be like a movie. That he'd go straight down, and Mom and I would run away. But I was too late. She was already dead, and that asshole survived."

November

“I’mnotasoldieror a cop. I don’t have hallucinations or forget where I am.”

“The vast majority of people who deal with PTSD don’t experience those things. It can occur after any traumatic event: a car accident, a medical emergency…. Nearly 7 percent of people in this country will have to contend with it at some point in their lives. For many people, it manifests as heightened anxiety. They’re always on guard, and many develop unhealthy coping mechanisms.”

“I don’t have unhealthy coping mechanisms,” I say.Shit, I sound defensive.

“None?”

I shrug. “I avoid things, I guess.”

“Complex PTSD can occur as a result of a series of traumatic events over time or a prolonged event. The symptoms can be—”

“I don’t havesymptomsof anything.”

“You mentioned difficulty sleeping.”

I grunt.

“You feel sick when something triggers a memory?”

I shrug, then nod.

“You believe the world is a dangerous place, and you’re in a constant state of hypervigilance?”

I shake my head. “That’s not a symptom. That’s just life.”

She tilts her head slightly, her expression gentle. “Not for everyone, James. Most people don’t think of their daily activities as inherently dangerous.”

Some part of meknowsthat, but I can’t stop thinking of what could happen. To Clarissa. To me.

“You said you avoid sex with your wife because it causes you to feel guilty and ashamed. It triggers memories of your mother’s abuse and murder?”

I let out a long breath before I admit, “I’m afraid of becoming him.”

Early December

“Hediedinprisonlast summer, and I went to make the arrangements,” I say.

Dr. Carlson nods at me encouragingly, so I go on. “I had to see he was dead. I thought if I saw his body, I could put him behind me.”

“But it didn’t work out that way?”

“Fuck no. That dead man? He didn’t look anything like Lee Willis. He was an old, beaten-down, pathetic piece of shit. Do you know who does look like Lee Willis?”

“And yet you’re nothing like him.”

I look down at the back of my right hand. The knuckles aren’t swollen or torn. I’m almost surprised by that. “My grandmother helped me change my name legally when I was fourteen. Before that, I had to listen to teachers and social workers and doctors call me by that bastard’s name. I was a ‘junior.’”

Something flares in Dr. Carlson’s eyes so briefly I almost don’t catch it before her professional mask falls back into place. She dips her chin. “How did you decide on your name?”

My lips quirk for the first time today. “My mother’s maiden name was Mellinger. And my grandmother had a bunch of James Bond DVDs. I liked James Bond. Still do. He wore a suit. He had money and power. He was the good guy, and I guess I thought that wasn’t a bad blueprint.”

January

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