Free All For Anna by Nicole Deese

said was not only accurate, it was nauseating.
It was like watching a horror movie and stopping it in the middle of the
climax. Would the heroine be rescued? Could she still be saved?
    I was more afraid than
ever to hear the answer.
    Too much time had
passed. I couldn’t even remember the Tori before the accident. A
different kind of death had claimed her that night. It was the kind of
death that no pulse could conquer, the kind of death that stalked its prey like
a dark, hungry shadow. That Tori was gone.
    “Yes. It never
dissipated,” I answered, stunned by the sound of my own voice.
    “Victoria, when was the
last time you cried? Can you remember?” She was leaning in toward me again,
getting closer by the second.
    Is she waiting to add
my answer to her clinical calculations?
    “About a week after the
accident.”
    Anna’s funeral.
    “That’s about what I
had figured. I’m certain that what you’re dealing with is a form of PTSD—Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder,” she said.
    My ears felt like they
were stuffed with a hundred cotton balls. I couldn’t understand her words.
    “What?”
    W hat did she say?
PTSD...like a war veteran? That can’t be what she means.
    No way.
    “PTSD. And yes, it
happens more than you realize, in everyday people who experience the worst that
life can throw at them. It’s not just a post-war diagnosis. So many people walk
around with it thinking it will lessen with time, but it doesn’t. Those people
just find ways to cope. Usually, very unhealthy ways like abusing drugs or
alcohol, or isolation from family and friends. They can also develop other
mental disorders, as well. Some have even been known to commit suicide as a way
of escape, but it doesn’t have to be that way—not for you.”
    Dr. Crane spoke with
such conviction that if I hadn’t known any better I would have sworn I was in church.
    “It will take some hard
work, Victoria, to un-hinge the compartments holding back your emotions and
your ability to feel, but I am willing to guide you through that process. I
think you’re an extraordinary young woman who has far surpassed any heroic
validation I could offer, but I also know that if you’re not helped...the trappings
of PTSD will consume you. So, let’s make a compromise, shall we?”
    Compromise ?
    “I’m not sure I
understand what you mean, Dr. Crane?”
    My head was spinning in
a million different directions.
    First she tells me I
have PTSD like I just got back from a bloody war field in Iraq, now she wants
to play “let’s make a deal”?
    “Having you here
against your will only defeats the progress we can make together. So, I am
willing to sign off on your overtime hours, if you are willing to agree to
treatment. That means that you will be the one making the appointments with me,
doing the homework I assign, and showing up here willing to work. I know this
is a lot to think about, but I can’t help you until you decide for yourself
that you want my help.”
    She pushed back her chair
and stood up. I was still in a daze when she placed her hand on my shoulder and
looked at me with deep sincerity.
    “Anna doesn’t have a choice to make, but you
still do. Her death doesn’t have to mean your death. There is no even exchange,
Victoria. If you won’t do it for yourself...think about doing it for Anna.”

NINE
    “There is no even
exchange...do it for Anna.”
    There had been several
diagnostic claims made to me or about me over the last 17 months, mostly by
disgruntled family members or co-workers. I had been called: cold, detached,
withdrawn, ice queen…and worse. I had easily ignored every one of them. This
one, however, struck a chord that resonated through the entirety of my body. It
was a low blow to involve Anna’s legacy, but Dr. Crane had a point.
    Did she really, though?
Is therapy for PTSD—if that’s actually what I have—really going to help honor
Anna’s life?
    It was a question that
I didn’t know how to answer. That fact alone