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The words sounded like he meant them for more than just Bean’s troubles, and I had no idea what to do with that. So I just nodded, then reached for my door handle and got inside. I waited until Nash was back in the house before I started my car, and I could see a couple of faces peering from behind curtains.
I smiled and waved, and they disappeared.
Maybe I was a dipshit for wanting this, but I did. I had no idea how long I’d be allowed to stick around.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BEAN
“As far as I can tell, the seizure left no lasting damage,” Dr. Hanley said after studying my MRI for what seemed like an eternity. “But I don’t like that you had one again after being seizure-free for so long.”
I cringed under her stern look. “I may have been stupid,” I said softly.
Next to me, Nash cleared his throat.
I let out a sigh. “I was stupid,” I corrected myself. “I hadn’t slept well all week and wasn’t feeling well from the moment I got up. Instead of respecting the limits my brain and body communicated, I forced myself to keep going.”
She leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. “You can’t do that, Bean. I know it’s frustrating, but?—”
“With all respect, Dr. Hanley, but you don’t. You have no idea what it’s like to be constantly betrayed by your own brain. I was a soldier, healthy and in the best shape of my life. And now I’m… I’m this shell of who I used to be, this weak excuse for a man, constantly forced to humiliate myself and admit I can’t do something, always needing to ask for help. I hate it. I hate everything about it. I hate my stupid brain, and I hate that I can’t ever be normal again…”
Tears streamed down my face, my throat so tight even swallowing hurt. It bubbled inside me, this anger, this rage, this fury over what had happened. I balled my fists. “I know I should be grateful I’m alive, that I survived that accident. And I know I shouldn’t allow myself to be this bitter and angry, but I am. It’s so unfair. So incredibly unfair. I did nothing wrong, but because someone else messed up, I will never be whole again. I’ll never be normal again. I’ll always have a crappy memory, and these mood swings and the seizures and the urge to harm myself and God knows what else.”
I turned to Nash. “A year from now, you’ll be sick and tired of me always needing your help, and you’ll kick me out, and then what? Who will want me? Who would ever love someone like me? I’m gonna end up alone, having to move back in with my parents until even they get tired of having to baby me.”
I buried my face in my hands, sobs wracking my body. Nash’s hand landed on my shoulder, firm and steady as a rock. He wasn’t angry with me?
Dr. Hanley pushed a box of tissues forward. “I was wondering if the emotions would ever come out,” she said softly.
I blew my nose and dried my eyes as best as I could, then looked up. Her face was still somewhat blurry through my misty eyes. “What do you mean?”
“From the moment I met you, you’ve been forcefully positive, always stating you didn’t want to be angry.”
“A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance: but by sorrow of the heart, the spirit is broken,” I whispered. “Proverbs 3:15:If you allow anger to take root, it will lead to bitterness, and where bitterness is, God can’t dwell.”
Over a decade since I’d been to church, yet the words rolled off my lips as if I’d heard them yesterday. The power of memorization. Or indoctrination, depending on how you looked at it. Either way, it had been strong enough to remain despite mybrain injury. Because, of course, my brain chose to rememberthat.
“Anger and bitterness are not the same thing,” Nash said, his voice gentle. “Anger is a pure emotion if you ask me, and it takes a lot of anger over a long period to develop into bitterness. When something like this happens to you, you’re allowed to be angry, Bean. I’m pretty sure Jesus himself was angry at some point.”
“He was when he kicked those salespeople out of the temple,” Dr. Hanley said. “And there are plenty of examples where God was angry, like when he sent the flood or when his people disobeyed him. I agree with Nash that anger and bitterness are not the same. It takes a long time for anger to become bitterness. However, if you keep repressing your anger rather than allowing yourself to feel it, that can have consequences too.”
“I don’t know how to be angry…” It came out a whisper, but I felt the truth of that statement resonate deep inside my soul. “It wasn’t something that was allowed in our house.”
Nash squeezed my shoulder. “So you’ll have to learn. Maybe your therapist could help you with that.”
“Yeah, but…” I tried to remember what I talked about with her but came up blank, so I reached for my notebook. “My notes say we talk about stuff like how to respond to mishaps or when people get irritated with me.” I looked up again. “The fact that I had to look it up tells you how helpful that was. Kinda hard to apply stuff you can’t remember in the first place.”
“So we’ll get you a new therapist,” Nash said. “One that is able to look past the surface and help you process and express your anger.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “Tameron’s therapist suggested he visit a rage room and beat the shit out of stuff with a baseball bat. It worked for him.”
I snorted despite everything. “He went to town with a baseball bat?”
“Yup. He showed me pics of the before and after. It was quite epic, actually. They had some old TVs, and he smashed them completely to pieces, then let loose on some old furniture. He said it made him feel a hundred times better.”
“I like that,” Dr. Hanley said. “That’s a healthy way of expressing anger and getting rid of that restless energy it can bring. And I agree with Nash that you may need a different therapist. I can give you some recommendations for an anger and trauma specialist if you like?”