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The Girl Who Saw Me

A short story about PTSD

By Chaylyn🌻☕️Published 4 years ago 21 min read
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I wasn't exactly a noticeable person.

Nobody talked to me, or listened when I did speak.

It was always like people were afraid that if they looked at me the wrong way, I'd rip their heads off.

I was someone of many labels.

I was the kid whose brother died in Iraq.

The guy whose parents called it quits after the funeral, and boy whose dad kicked him to the curb as soon as he legally could.

I was the guy who got a a full ride scholarship of pity money to come to my college.

But they didn't know that, the kids and most of the faculty in my college.

All they knew was that I never spoke, and when I did, my words always came out angrier than I meant them.

All they knew was that I was the guy who always wore a camouflage army jacket and army boots, no matter the weather or occasion.

All they knew was nothing.

/-/

The day I met her, I was mad.

I don't even remember why, to be honest.

It was something small and completely stupid.

But I was mad.

I was sitting in my usual spot- the last chair in the furthest corner of the nosebleed section in the classroom turned auditorium-when she sat beside me.

I shot her a look.

"You won't be able to see or hear anything, you know." My words were gruff, clipped.

I wasn't as annoyed as I sounded; I was just mostly just confused why she was up here.

The girl shrugged, seemingly unbothered by my rudeness. "I've already taken this class, so it doesn't really matter. I thought I'd make a friend instead."

I lifted an eyebrow at her perkiness. "Then what are you do-"

She put her hand on my arm, stopping me not only mid-sentence, but also mid-word.

I stared down at her hand.

With the exception of little old ladies in the grocery store, nobody ever touched me.

"I'm a transfer. But, apparently, this class didn't transfer with me." She chuckled and dropped her hand back onto her desk.

"Couldn't you just test out?" I wanted to ask.

But I didn't.

Looking back, I think it's because I actually liked this girl. I didn't want her to test out.

She was different.

It was refreshing.

So I didn't say anything else and just let her sit there.

I paid no attention to the wiry professor standing at the head of the "classroom", instead watching as the girl brought her notebook page to life with small strokes of her pencil.

If Prof Hughes saw her Hunched over her notebook, pencil scratching the surface, her brows pinched together in deep concentration, he could have very easily thought she was taking notes.

But I knew better.

I could see better.

The varying shades of grey on her page were drawn with purpose.

The slopes, edges, curves, and lines were masterfully shaped and ran together with perfect precision.

It was obvious that she was an artist and it was captivating to watch her work.

But It was only when she pulled her hand away that I realized what she was drawing.

A tattered American flag flying high in the sky, a soldier at its pole, saluting the flag, and smoke billowing against the sunset.

/-/

It was as though the air had been taken from my lungs.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't think.

The only thing I saw when I looked at that picture was the soldier.

That soldier came to life in my mind's eye and became my brother.

And then the smoke, from fires caused by the bombs that the enemies threw at Chase's team, choked him while I watched.

I wanted to look away and make it stop.

But all I could do was sit there like an idiot and stare at her drawing.

I was only vaguely aware of her hand on my arm, and, though her lips were moving, I didn't hear a word that she said.

I locked my jaw, swallowed the small amount of saliva left in my dry mouth, and forced myself to look away.

"Sorry," I choked out before standing up and making a beeline for the door closest to me.

/-/

I could barely communicate to the campus barista what I was trying to order, but she somehow got it and made my small double shot caramel macchiato.

I paid her and sat down at the table closest to me, the world around me still fuzzy.

People were talking, and I'm sure it was loud, but all I could hear was the faint buzzing of their voices and laughter.

I put my cup down, closed my eyes and leaned my head into my hands, elbows propped against the tabletop.

Breathe, I told myself. Breathe. That wasn't real. Just breathe.

I focused on nothing but inhaling through my nose, counting to ten, and pushing the breath back out through my lips.

"Connor?"

I lifted my head to see the Girl seated across from me.

Ears burning, I looked back down and grabbed my coffee.

"Are you okay?"

I glared across the table at her. "Do I look okay?"

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't-"

I shook my head, cutting her off. "It's fine."

When she didn't reply, I took another drink of coffee, allowing the heat to burn my tongue and bring me the rest of the way back to the present. "How'd you find me, anyways?"

Her lips turned upward in a soft smile.

You know, the kind of smile that people give you when they feel sorry for you?

From anyone else it would have annoyed me.

The only thing that annoyed me was that it didn't bother me coming from her.

"I followed you out of class... You even held the door for me."

My face heated with a vengeance.

She put her hand over mine. "It's fine. I promise. You were pretty out of it."

I shook my head as though to shake away my embarrassment. "Did I tell you my name too or are you just a stalker?"

She pulled her hand back and it was then that I realized how harshly I said that. I meant to tease her, but my tone was sharp.

My question sounded more like an accusation than a sarcastic joke.

"No, I saw it on your notebook." An amused smile lit up her brown eyes.

I nodded and brought my coffee cup to my mouth once more.

"What happened back there? You don't have to tell me, I just-"

"I don't even know you."

She grinned and stuck out her hand, which I grasped. "I'm Miria Hampton, a sophomore counseling major from Manhatten. Let's see..." She raised a black eyebrow, as though in a challenge and dropped my hand. "I have two dogs, half of a cat, a lizard-"

I held my hands up to stop her. "Half of a cat...?"

Her laughter was crisp, happy. "Yeah, she's a shelter rescue... Only has three legs and one eye." She reached over and took a sip of my coffee.

I stared at her, both impressed and annoyed by her boldness.

She stared back at me, her confusion evidenced by the wrinkles in her forehead. "Why are you-" All color drained from her face then. "Oh. Oh, that was- this is... This is your coffee." Her face turned bright red and she quickly set the cup down as though it were on fire. "I am so sorry! I wasn't even- I'm sorry!" She pushed the cup at me and ducked her head.

I actually laughed.

Out loud.

For the first time in a year and a half.

"It's fine... Want some more?" I wiggled my eyebrows and pushed the cup toward her.

My voice sounded human.

It was obvious that I was joking.

She rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at me.

"That was mature..." I chuckled.

"Oh, shush. Nobody asked you."

Silence fell over us and we sat, Miria awkwardly staring out the window and me flicking the plastic lip of my coffee lid.

"So now you know me." She finally broke the silence.

It took me a little while for me to understand that she was asking me to open up to her.

"No, I don't."

And just like that, I crawled back inside my invisible shell and made a vow to myself that this girl would not shatter it.

She would not break me.

I hadn't talked about Chase's death or the events that took place after with anyone since they happened.

And I wasn't going to now.

/-/

I skipped class the day after I met Miria.

And the class after that the next Monday.

I hadn't planned on it, but I also hadn't planned on nightmares or more panic attacks.

I couldn't get her drawing out of my head, the image of the soldier followed me everywhere I went, instantly morphing into something dark and painful any time I tried to push it away or forget about it.

I couldn't tell Miria that, though.

She hadn't meant any harm.

She didn't even know.

Her drawing wasn't the only thing that caused my stomach to knot up and memories to flood my brain.

But it was the only thing that made me fill in the blanks of his death.

I had never thought about how Chase died.

I never allowed myself to.

He died and that's all that mattered to me.

But her drawing...

It somehow pushed through my walls of self-preservation and totally ruined me.

By the fourth night of not sleeping for more than ten minutes at a time, for a grand total of two hours of sleep, and after 2 skipped psychology classes, I gave up trying and just accepted the fact that this girl was unknowingly destroying me.

/-/

"So he lives!" Miria greeted me with a grin, seated again in the top row, right next to my desk.

I didn't say anything or acknowledge her in any way.

Part of me was glad to see her and part of me hated her.

She would be drawing again today, no doubt.

I wouldn't watch.

"Connor," she poked the skin of my forearm lightly with the tip of her pencil.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. "What?"

"I texted you. You never replied... Is everything ok?"

I shot her a look, a silent warning for her to drop it. "Yeah, it's fine."

She nodded slowly and pursed her lips. "Clearly."

I turned away from her and faced a big screen on the wall.

"Hello, class. It's been brought to my attention by Mr. Connor O'Neil that my lectures could not be heard by the students from rows 27, up. So... I now have a microphone." He taps on what I presume is a lapel microphone. "Now that I have that out of the way, let's get into the lecture, shall we? Today we will be discussing Post Traumatic Stress Disorder- better known as PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is most prevalent in war veterans but, contrary to popular belief, this condition can affect anyone and everyone who has been through something traumatic in their life. Symptoms of PTSD include flashbacks, nightmares, anxiety, including, but not limited to, panic attacks-"

The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in around me.

It's like Prof Hughes was talking to me.

He was looking right at me.

It was like he knew.

Everyone knew.

My hands formed fists on the swing-around tabletop desk hovering over my lap.

My mouth dried instantly.

"Breathe, Connor."

I could feel my eyebrows draw together.

I didn't say that out loud, did I?

Did I even speak?

I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat.

"It's okay, Connor. It's okay." A cool hand settled over one of my fists.

Miria.

She was talking.

It wasn't me.

I hadn't spoken.

That should have filled me with relief, but it made it all the worse instead.

She knew what was going on.

Maybe not exactly, but she knew.

"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a mental illness that can be managed, but never fully cured, through therapy sessions and medication- that's why we- the counselors and therapists- are here. To give people suffering with PTSD and other illnesses someone to go to for help with managing their condition."

I asked my dad to take me to a therapist once after Chase died.

He said I was being pathetic and weak and refused to.

Then, a few weeks later, he kicked me out.

That's when it got really bad.

I've never been able to afford to take myself and, if I'm being totally honest, I lost the desire to go.

I thought I'd be fine on my own.

That I could handle it.

It wasn't until Miria's picture that I realized how bad I had gotten.

"Traumatic events that might trigger PTSD in a patient are among, but not limited to, sexual assault or abuse, physical or verbal abuse, a bad accident, the act of suicide committed by a friend or family member of the PTSD victim, for a soldier, it could be triggered post war simply by coming back to America, the traumatic death of someone close to the PTSD victim in some other way than suicide-"

War.

Death.

Chase.

My throat constricted and I began to bounce my knee, desperately hoping that I could snap myself out of it.

I couldn't think.

I couldn't breath.

I could feel it overtaking me.

Choking me.

The ticking of a nearby clock was growing louder by the second.

Prof Hughes' lecture was now only a faint buzz in my ear.

The pain was overwhelming, the anxiety was crushing me.

Sweat dropped off my forehead and onto my arm.

I couldn't get any air in and the temperature of the room just kept rising.

I felt like I was drowning in fire.

There was no escape.

And I had no idea how to communicate anything to anybody.

I was only vaguely aware of Miria standing up, grabbing my hand, and leading me out of the classroom.

When we got to the vacant hallway, Miria stopped and gently pulled on my hand to get me to sit down.

I slid down the wall, and leaned forward, putting my head between my hands when I was seated.

Cool fingers pried my hands-Wet from the tears on my cheeks- from my face and worked quick at removing Chase's jacket from my back and off of my arms.

My body tensed, wanting to spiral deeper into this chasm.

"It's okay, Connor. It's just me, it's Miria."

Her voice was nearly too quiet to hear, like a single shout in the midst of a raging hurricane, and I barely registered her words.

But it was just enough to allow me to lean forward again.

Slender fingers drew circles on my back and massaged my scalp.

"Breathe, Connor. It's okay. You're okay. Just breathe."

I did as the voice- Miria, it was Miria- told me, concentrating on my breaths.

I focused on inhaling, counting, and exhaling.

I focused on the way her fingers felt in my hair and the way the muscles in my back were relaxing at her touch.

We sat there like that for a long time.

Me, leaned forward, struggling to breathe, and Miria at my side, telling me that it was okay, to just breathe, doing all she could to pull me out of my pit.

When my breaths were steadier, and I was more aware of my surroundings, Miria's fingers stilled on my back and she moved the hand in my hair to cover my hand.

I couldn't look at her.

I was too ashamed.

Too broken.

Ashamed that I was broken and that she could see it.

And I knew that this attack was far from over.

Lately, my panic attacks had been coming in two waves.

The first was bad, but the second was always worse.

I could feel the second wave lurking, threatening to overtake me at any second.

"Connor, look at me." She touched the tips of her fingers to my cheek and turned my face so that I had to look at her.

When I refused, she leaned forward and put her other hand on my face. "Look at me."

I complied, lifting my gaze to meet hers.

I was selfish for it, but if it was going to happen, if I was going to have another meltdown, I didn't want to be alone.

She never looked away from my eyes, the compassion radiating from her gaze. "Are you ok, now?"

I couldn't find the words to answer her.

Even as I sat there, staring into her eyes, watching as she tried to figure out how to help me, I could feel it coming.

Let it come, I thought. She wanted to see the ugly. She wanted to know why I left class. Let it come. Let her see.

"Do you want to go somewhere?"

I didn't even know if I could make it somewhere else before the panic engulfed me.

But I couldn't risk losing it in public, so I nodded.

She took my hand and we walked down a few hallways.

Maybe I wouldn't have another episode.

Maybe it was done.

But then I saw the corner of Miria's picture poke out of her bag.

My mind colored in all the details, bringing the soldier to life only to kill him.

My nightmares came flooding back.

Chase.

Chase choking.

Chase hanging from a rope.

Chase bleeding to death.

My brain went crazy attempting to fill in the blanks of his death.

These were blanks I never wanted to know the answers to before, but would now give anything to.

My grip on Miria's hand tightened and I bit my lip hard, struggling to keep the images at bay.

Miria massaged the back of my hand with her thumb, pulling me along behind her.

"Mir," I choked out.

She stopped and faced me.

She pursed her lips and nodded when she saw me. "Connor, I need you to stay with me. We're almost there. Just focus on me, okay?"

I hated this.

I hated being so weak.

My dad was right.

I was weak.

Miria should never have to do this for me.

I shouldn't be this damaged.

I hated myself for this sickness.

When I didn't answer her, Miria studied me, watching as though she could read my thoughts, see me struggling not to fall into the chasm.

Turning away from me, she began walking again, faster this time, pulling me behind her.

I focused on the rising and falling of her shoulders, tried to match my breathing the rhythm of hers, studied the way her shoulder blades stuck out of her back, poking against the fabric of her pink shirt.

I watched her dark hair bounce against her shoulders.

I couldn't think about her drawing or my brother.

I couldn't let myself drown.

I couldn't let her see me like that.

But, I decided, I might have to.

There might not be another choice.

Finally, after climbing a flight of stairs and walking off campus, we're in a church sanctuary.

"This is my church. Nobody's hear this Time of day."

And it was those words that broke me.

I allowed myself to collapse into a pew and give in to the pain, still clinging to Miria's hand as though it were my lifeline.

At the moment, maybe it was.

She sat beside me, massaging my back while every single nightmare I've ever had about Chase and his death played back in my head.

My heart was beating rapidly, pounding so hard against my rib cage it was as though I'd just finished a 15 mile sprint.

The breath was squeezed from my lungs and I bit my lip until I tasted blood.

So now I had a name for this.

This monster that lived inside me.

PTSD.

I had PTSD.

And now everyone on campus knew.

Now Miria knew.

Was this why Prof Hughes had given the lecture he had today?

Soon, the world had faded away completely and my panic attack had left me absolutely paralyzed in every way possible.

I couldn't do anything.

I couldn't think, move, speak, cry, hear, or feel anything but overwhelming, all consuming pain.

Gut-wrenching, make-you-wish-you-were-never-born pain.

It's all I could feel, see, hear, and taste.

Pain.

"Breathe, Connor. Just breathe."

I didn't know who said it, but I didn't know what else to do.

So I tried to draw in a breath.

I couldn't.

I tried again and a dull ache stabbed at my head.

"Connor, breathe. You're okay. It's okay. I promise. You're gonna be okay. I just need you to breathe with me."

I was gonna be okay?

No, I wasn't.

But still, I focused on breathing until I finally felt the air squeeze it's way through my esophagus and fill my lungs.

I held the breath, closing my eyes as sweat dripped off my face, and counted to ten.

I exhaled, and felt the muscles in my back begin to relax as cold fingers drew circles on them.

I inhaled again, the roaring in my ears fading to a dull static.

I held my breath, opening my eyes and allowing a tear to drop off my eyelash and onto the fingers stroking my tightly clenched fist.

I exhaled and released my lip from between my teeth.

I inhaled, the scent of Japanese cherry blossoms bringing me fully back to the present.

I was in a church sanctuary- Miria's church sanctuary- with Miria.

I had a panic attack.

It was over now.

I sat up and closed my eyes, still trying to catch my breath.

Miria removed her hand from my back, and pried my fist open with her fingers.

She didn't argue or pull away when I chased after her hand with mine and intertwined our fingers.

"Are you okay?" Her voice was raw, as though she'd been crying.

Maybe she had been.

I'm sure it wasn't easy seeing me like this.

I didn't reply.

I guess she took my lack of response as a response because she put her hand on my cheek and turned my face towards hers. "Connor,"

I opened my eyes and met her gaze.

"Do you know me?"

I nodded.

She waited.

"I have PTSD. It was never diagnosed by a doctor, but I know that's what it is."

When I didn't elaborate, she asked, "What triggered it?"

"I don't want to-"

She put her hand on my knee. "Connor. I want to understand. Please help me understand."

So I told her.

About Chase dying in Iraq.

How I never asked how he died, I never wanted to know.

About my parents' split, my mom's sudden move to Korea, and about my dad kicking me to the curb as soon as I turned eighteen.

She listened, didn't say a word until I was done.

"Connor... You never had to deal with all of this by yourself."

"Yes, Mir, I did. Who was I supposed to go to?"

She only nods.

"I never really allowed myself to deal with it anyways. Thus... what just happened."

"So deal."

I just looked at her. "What?"

"Deal with it. You're not alone now. You can deal with it."

I bit my lip.

She grabbed my hand. "I'm here, Connor."

So I dealt with it, allowing myself to feel everything all at once.

The anger, the sorrow, the regret, the guilt.

I let it all consume me for just a little bit.

She wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug, letting me fall against her.

She ran her fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp, and kissed my head.

I held her as though I had to.

She let me break.

And slowly, carefully, she began to piece me back together.

With every stroke of her fingers, a shard of my shattered life was picked up and glued back into place.

With every kiss she put upon my head, the pain eased just a little.

With every tear she cried for me, the numbness let up, the panic disappeared, and the dark clouds lifted.

I pulled away from her and we just sat there in the sanctuary.

She leaned into me, laying her head on my shoulder.

/-/

She never knew what she did for me.

I wish I had told her.

But the girl who held me as I went through Hell itself and then pulled me back was sick.

And she would die in a few short months.

I never told her how she saved my life.

I think she knew.

I vowed she would never break my shell.

But she did.

I vowed I would never let her see me for who I was- rather, who I thought I was.

But I did.

Not only did she shatter my shell, but she then helped me repair my life.

Not only did she see me when I was at my absolute worst, but she also loved me through it.

Miria Hampton was the first and only person to truly notice me.

She not only knew who I was, but she also took the time to find out why I was who I was.

She was and will always be my first love.

Miria Hampton.

The girl who saw me.

ptsd
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About the Creator

Chaylyn🌻☕️

i drink a lot of coffee and write a lot of songs

Let’s be friends:)

Instagram, Twitter: @chaylynmusic

Facebook: Chaylyn Thompson

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