“Coming back here. For all the shit we’ve been through, I know it’s a lot.”
“I didn’t think it’d hit me this hard.”
“We can leave,” he says. “Say the word, Kid. Say the word and we get back in that car and I swear to you that you’ll never have to come here for as long as you live.”
I’m embarrassed now. God, what he’s had to put up with. On top of everything else he’s gone through. The late nights spent in the bathtub all the way up until only a couple of years ago. The behavior and cognitive therapy, which led to the diagnosis. Followed by the antidepressants that I didn’t want nor thought I needed and that only ended up making things worse. The antianxiety drugs that made me a drone. Benzodiazepines that I began to crave. The craving that turned into something so much more. All of which I finally dropped because I am Tyson Fucking Thompson. I have an IQ of 158. I became a member of MENSA at the age of thirteen. I graduated high school at fifteen. I don’t need this. I am not fucking crazy. I am better. I am bigger. I am stronger.
“No,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “No. I wanted to come back. I told you I did. I can do this. It was just… overwhelming.”
“Ty….”
“Bear.”
“You’ll tell me if it gets worse.” It’s not said as a request.
“Even if I don’t, you always know,” I mutter.
“Damn fucking right I do. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you slide backward, Kid. You need something, you ask me. You got me?”
“I got you.” Only because there’s no other choice.
“And you can stop now.”
“Stop what?” Even though we both know what he’s talking about.
“Thinking about if it’s going to hit again. It might. It might not. If it does, we’ll face it.”
Anticipatory attacks. A big part of panic disorder. After a panic attack, there’s times when my thoughts are completely occupied with when the next attack will hit. Sometimes, it goes on. And on. For days.
“Sometimes I think you know me way too well,” I tell him.
He laughs quietly. “You could say that. You need to talk to someone?”
“More therapy?” I groan. “I’m not crazy, Bear.”
“No one ever said you were. It might help. It helped me, you know.”
“That’s because you were crazy,” I assure him.
He waits.
I give in. Sort of. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Eddie’s still here.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because that’s a good idea.”
“He’s family.”
“We’re so weird.”
“That we are,” he agrees.
We’re quiet, for a time. Then, “Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to fix this. My head.”