Hearts on Fire (Hearts of Texas, #1)

by Christina Berry

Pinned beneath the unbearable weight of the car, I can’t move. The pain in my arm is excruciating. My nostrils fill with the acrid stench of smoke. Strobes of red and blue lights glitter in the broken glass. Dizziness and panic twist together in my belly, turning sour like sickness. Except… Wait. This isn’t real. It’s the nightmare. My brain’s playing her stupid games again. In the hazy place between wakefulness and sleep, I try to remember the coping exercises my therapist, Erica, taught me.

“Wiggle your toes and fingers,” she says in my mind, her soothing voice centering me as I do what she instructs to push myself through the sleep paralysis. “Take a deep breath in and out.” But something’s different this time. Something’s…purring, and the weight bearing down on my chest moves; it steps on my left tit. “Ouch!” I yelp and bolt upright. A cat tumbles onto the sheets beside me.

“You’re like a crazy cat lady, but with a dick.” “Thanks. That’s the exact description I was going for,” Drew says as he washes his hands. “Though don’t crazy cat ladies usually have ten or more cats?” “This obstacle course is the equivalent of at least nine cats.” “Fair point.”

“Does Drew know you struggle with PTSD and GAD?”

“I mean, I haven’t said the words. But I cried the first time he went to work, a whopping two days after we met. And this morning I couldn’t even look him in the eyes when I ran out on him. I’m sure by now he realizes I’m crazy.” “You know how I feel about that word.” Erica bans her clients from using the c-word, says it’s derogatory and unhelpful to the treatment process. You either call your diagnosis by name, or you don’t label it at all. “I’m sure by now he realizes I’m struggling with post-traumatic stress disorder and generalized anxiety disorder.” Erica tries not to chuckle at my sass, fails. “Don’t you think it’s time to talk to him about it?” “I don’t want to ruin his image of me. I like that Drew thinks I’m easy. What’s he going to do when he finds out I’m actually really hard?” “You said it yourself—he probably already knows something is going on. Talk to him. Help him understand what you’re experiencing. Perhaps

there are ways he can help mitigate the symptoms ...

“How?” “Well, it sounds like your anxiety is triggered by your lack of control. You fear the unknown potential danger he faces. Let’s consider ways you ca...

I consider this, but I’m at a loss. How does one take back control from the unknown? Erica gives me a moment to ponder, then answers her ...

The thing about anxiety is it lies. It’s like the cruelest part of your psyche is given a megaphone to amplify your insecurities. It tells you, over and over, that you’re a failure for not being stronger.

Look how pathetic you are. Can’t even perform the most mundane tasks without panicking? Why can’t you just function like a normal adult? Don’t be so dramatic. This isn’t about you. You’re not the one suffering and dying, so get over yourself. You’re failing your mother. Be a better daughter.

The worst part is you believe it. So when managing the logistics of getting Mom across town to her oncology appointments and then driving to five different pharmacies for her medication in rush-hour traffic tied my stomach in knots that wouldn’t untangle for days, I ignored it. I downplayed the nausea that sometimes led to vomiting before bed and my dramatic weight loss too. I didn’t want t...

It wasn’t until my paranoia kicked in, convincing me that the constant pain in my stomach was some rare form of mother-daughter cancer, that I spoke to a doctor. Turns out, it was an ulcer. My anxiety had ...

Of course, that only gave the anxiety more to chew on. Every remedy I took to heal myself sparked shame and self-loathing. My medication routine was a daily reminder that I wasn’t strong enough to support my mom through her struggle. My ...