“Cross your wrists at your chest.”
I comply, and Casey moves her hands up to wrap her fingers around my wrists, holding me as securely as rope.
“Maybe this position will help,” Casey says softly. She tightens her grip on me. “I’m the ropes this time, and you’re as bound in my arms as you were with the ropes.”
Her grip is tight, and it’s similar to being bound though not exactly the same. I glance down at my still naked body and see the crisscross pattern of rope marks up and down my legs. The sight comforts me, and combined with her embrace, I do get the same general sense of peace I crave. At least, I do until I realize I have to start talking.
I close my eyes and try to form words in my mind. I go back to the first counselors I saw after I was found, but that’s too far and too deep. I shake my head.
“I never talk about this,” I say quietly. “The only people who know all of it are Cree and th
e counselor assigned to me. I have to talk to her, or I don’t get my disability checks.”
“Disability?”
“For the PTSD. It’s bad enough that I’ve never really been able to hold a job. I do some data entry over the summer when I don’t have classes. That’s not so bad because I don’t ever see anyone, and it helps me meet the guidelines to get checks the rest of the year.”
“You like to isolate yourself.”
Isolate. I consider the word, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s not that I like to be alone; it’s just simpler. When others are around, I know I’m supposed to interact with them, especially if they say something to me first, and I know I fail every time I try. When I fail to communicate, everyone around me gets nervous, and they back off never to approach again.
“I’m...not good with people.”
“Because of what happened to you?” Casey asks gently. “Because of the PTSD?”
I shake my head a little, knowing I don’t have the right words. Even the diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder seems all wrong. Stress is far too mundane a word to describe it, and it’s not all in the past—I’m constantly traumatized.
“I...I can’t.”
“It’s all right,” she tells me. “I don’t want to push you. If this way isn’t working, I can tie you with the ropes instead. Would that help?”
“No.” Now that I’m in this position, I don’t want her to let go of me.
I focus on her arms holding me tightly and the heavy bass of the music vibrating the floor below us. I hear voices from the main room. I can’t quite make out the words, but the voices are cheerful and carefree. I close my eyes, wondering why it’s so impossible for me to relax and just be when everyone else around me does it with such ease.
“Really, Rocco. How fucked up can it be?”
Casey’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. I consider her question and then let out a hollow laugh.
“Maybe start with something from your past that isn’t traumatic.” She rubs her fingers against my wrists and then grips them firmly again. “I get the idea that you spent some time in a group home, too. Can you tell me about that?”
“I don’t know how to start.” I hear Casey sigh, and I know I’m frustrating her. I tense again, wondering how long it will be before she, like so many others, will give up and run from me.
“I can ask questions,” she says. “Would that be better? How did you get to the group home?”
“I was taken out of foster care.” That was straightforward enough. Maybe questions would be better.
“By whom?”
“The same social worker who placed me there.” I blink, trying to remember what she looked like, but I only get an image of light brown curls. “She said I’d be there a few weeks, but it didn’t last that long.”
“What was her name?”
“Miss Carol.”
“Why did she take you out?”
“The foster family didn’t like me.” I swallow hard. This isn’t a part of my past I want to remember, but it’s easier to explain than the rest, so I try to describe it as best I can. “I cried too much, I think. And they wanted me to talk, but I didn’t really know how. They tried to enroll me in a school, but it was so bright in the office, and I kinda freaked out. They said I was more than they could deal with and asked her to take me away.”