"You've come so far." Dr. Aldrich says through the screen of my laptop. "You are more than equipped to handle anything that comes your way."
It's comforting, the amount of faith she has in me but I'm not entirely sure I share the same level of confidence. I'm like a poorly knit sweater, one tug away from completely unraveling.
"What is your hesitation Holt?" She prompts.
Her dark hair is no longer braided and falling down her back, a few years ago she cut it off at the shoulders. She has a few more wrinkles but last time I was in her office she was still sporting a pair of Toms.
My eyes lift to hers in the screen, my hand reaching for Blue. Maybe I'll never be able to stop that habit, I'm not sure.
"I just...I-what..." I stammer trying to organize my thoughts and put words to my fears. It's not easy. "What if I..what if I can't?"
I really don't know if I can make it through right now, without Blue, with Austin's parole.
"You have gotten through everything you've ever had doubts about before, what could possibly make this different?" She asks.
Dr. Aldrich is always patient, even when she's urging me to have more confidence. Even when someone else might be bothered by my need for constant reassurance. But she's always quick to point out that my doubts in myself are completely my own creation.
"Holt, you have a great support system, you have skills and coping strategies that have proven effective for you time and time again. Dr. Trent is available and so am I." I nod along, I know all this. "Why don't I schedule another zoom for next week, just to ease your nerves?"
"Please." My answer is instantaneous.
She smiles warmly at me. It's the sort of smile my mom gives me after a panic attack, when I'm still shaking and fatigue hits me like a ton of bricks. It's a smile full of sympathy.
"Alright, next week, same time, does that work for you Holt?"
I nod my head, finding a moment of security with the familiarity of Dr. Aldrich and another scheduled appointment. It allows the grip that wants to seize my lungs to let go marginally and I let out a breath with it.
"Okay." She confirms, her focus going to her desk for a moment before she looks back at me through the screen. "And in the meantime, remember how far you've come Holt, how capable you are."
I tell her I will and I mean it. My goal is never to go backward. I adamantly do not want to ever be who I was when I first came to my parents. If I could erase that Holt and everything that came before it I would, without a second thought.
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Sweat coats my body as I walk home from the gym a few blocks from my house. It's not the team gym.
I needed a place to go to that was close, especially after Blue, when running the streets was something I could no longer do without flashbacks and panic attacks coming for me. Without Blue, every step I took felt like someone was looming behind, Austin's voice whispering in my ear, maniacal and persistent until I'd no longer be on the streets of Chicago but back in the basement.
After the second one, I called it quits, and the gym I kept as a back up become a more prominent thing. I've been making more and more appearances there, at all sorts of hours. Trying to workout out anxiety.
I know I'm teetering on a fine line, that the amount of exercise I succumb to in order to manage myself borders on obsessive. Maybe a little unhealthy. But I've increased my calories to make sure I'm not in a calorie deficit and as long as the team nutritionist doesn't raise alarms at the few pounds I've lost I don't think it'll be an issue.
But working out, really anything active, has proven itself to dull my anxiety. So it's the first place I go.
On my walk I pass a park, the familiar twang of the basketball as it smacks against pavement meets my ears, the scraping of rubber soles against the concrete, the metallic rattle of the netless rim, they're comforting sounds that draw me near.
I find myself lingering, hood drawn up over my head shielding my face as I watch a group of twenty something year olds play. My soul aches to join, my feet wanting to drag me to the court. There's something about a pick up game, the loose way everyone plays, the lack of pressure. When the fun returns to the game and I can climb out from under everything that constantly tries to pull me down. It's a craving I thirst for and even though there's a good chance I'll be recognized I step through the chain link fence and to the sidelines as the ball slips through the rim.
The players high five, patting one another on the back with a string of "good game" and "next time" bouncing through the air. As they come off the court I hear talk of another game, guzzling water, one of them says they're out. The rest protest and it's then I offer myself up to fill his place.
One of the guys eyes me, dark hair shaved short with a thick closely cut beard and tattoos spread across his dark skin. I'm waiting for him to ask but he shrugs his shoulders and says "sure, you're on skins."
I'm reluctant to pull the thin hoodie off even though it's soaked through and the sun is hot. I don't want to be Holt Lincoln from the Chicago Bulls but I need to play. So I suck in a breath and pull my damp clothes off over my head.
"You look like Holt Lincoln." One of the guys says, towering over me by several inches, he's my teammate, a large tattoo in bright colors spans his chest, blond hair flattened with sweat to his head.
"Nah Holt Lincoln's taller than that." Another guy says. I'm not taller than this but I don't correct him. "What's your name? I'm Dante."
He throws his hand out toward me, a quick, alarming movement. It makes my heart leap but I've gotten good at standing still even though my mind still wants to send me fleeing and I count off the things I see, hear and smell. I slap my hand in his and as if this were a regular thing I say smoother than I ever thought possible "Drew".
Dante smiles, the t-shirt he's wearing stuck to his skin like it's been glued on and he says "Alright Drew, let's play."
