#8. Holding On

It was Wednesday.  It had been a week. Every Wednesday my phone rang with my college mentor on the other line. It was an arrangement I made in order to prompt myself to complete the task I had said I would complete, her primary job was to ram rod me into completing my Master's degree.
I couldn't care less at this point about my education. It seemed like a distant image that was most likely a mirage and senseless to chase. But it was Wednesday.
My phone lit up, and her name came across the screen.
At first I was irrationally upset that she called at all. How dare she be so oblivious to what was dealing with and assume that on top of it all I could handle an outrageous course load I had balanced nicely before.....before this.........before my new life. My new life barely accommodated the things required for life, such as breathing.
And then I remembered it was  Wednesday. Something I could count on. Maybe the only thing I could count on. I answered the phone. The first phone call I had taken in a week. I was silenced by the tone on the other end. Chipper, and upbeat. Just like usual. I exhaled.
She didn't know.
I was going to have to tell her.
Panic.
My voice constricted like a grape in the sun, shriveling to nonexistence. Barely recognizable.
"Lis," I choked......"I lost my son last week."
She was mid sentence, and the line went still.......
I could hear the movement of air as my body sunk against the wall. I clutched my knees again, ripping the scab off of my knees, watching them bleed.
"Carrie, I......."
Silence.
I could hear her tears hit the receiver. She was pregnant with her second child, and her first was Kole's age. We had talked about our children a thousand times throughout the years. She had been with me since Kole was an infant. She knew my stories. She knew my heart. She knew my love. She is one of my very best friends.

"What do you want to do?"
The questions wasn't what I had anticipated. I had expected her to bow out, like everyone else. Walk away from the hurt and leave it alone. Knowing it was too much to handle. No one can. But there it was, for the first time in what seemed like my whole life, an option.She was the first sign of hope for me. The first person who believed I might survive, and that maybe I could do it.

"Call me on Wednesday." I said, questioning,  pleading, telling.
"Ok." She said in response, questioning, pleading, telling.

It was in that instant I decided that I would grieve by trying to keep everything the same. Stagnation was my impulse. Keep it still. Perhaps by clinging to what existed in my past life, I could maintain something from there, keep him with me.

It was Wednesday again, and my phone rang. It was her. Consistency. Something to rely on. What I was clinging to at the moment, what kept me alive. She let me drive the course and pick goals. We were both hopeful by my fortitude, but didn't count on the damage done by the trauma. I no longer could breeze through the course load. I couldn't read. I couldn't write. I could barely speak, and the harder I tried, the more I realized the gap in my competency. How is it possible to go from having a near photographic memory, to barely being able to read? How is the a "side effect" of traumatic situations.
I studied it relentlessly. I read about my symptoms, and with the help of more than one psychological professional diagnosed myself with PTSD. This was my new reality. Not only was I not going to be able to pick up where I left off, in a meager attempt to perpetuate my education, I was not able to function as a moderately intelligent person anymore. My intelligence had always given me a sense of security in life, a sort of edge against the competition. Now I was faced with a half completed degree, and a daunting student loan.
Another option presented itself. I could drop out. No one would blame me....in fact, they would understand, and sypathize and wrap me in words of affirmation and sentiments that were as follows;

"Honey, you can only do what you can do."
"We understand, it was very hard."
"You have the right to just be sad."

I could hear it echo. You can only do what you can do. Piss on that. I needed a win. God, I needed a win. Something to look forward to. Something I could stand on for just a moment. So I committed to finishing my degree.

And I failed.

I failed a test, the final Praxis exam. I failed it by one point. I had studied relentlessly for months, reading the page and reaching the bottom just to realize that my mind was watching the movie on the VCR, and not comprehending the words.
Rewind, push play.
I read it again, and again, and again. I read the words over and over until my eyes would hurt and I couldn't focus on the words. I read until my books were tattered and stained with tears and oil from my finger forcing my eyes to follow it by streaking across the sentences. It was like catching a wild dog, and telling it to sit still. It was no longer as simple as thinking about it, and executing. It was an active process, requiring focus, and determination.
I failed by one point. It was a new low.
Once again. A choice. Walk away, no one would blame me. They would understand.
Forget that.
I read the books again. I read them over and over. I read the study guides until I had them memorized, and then forgotten, and then memorized again. And I walked in for my next exam. Terrified. I was quiet, and shaking. I remember thinking about all of the other tests I had stormed into like a force to be reckoned with, sat down, and in a quarter of the time of everyone else, completed, took a nap, and asked to be excused. Now I was the trembling girl on the front row, clearly terrified. And notably insecure, as seen on the bead of sweat formed before she even sat down.
Pathetic I thought, and shook my head as I scribbled my name on the paper. It looked like a foreign language.

I could only think to pray. I prayed so hard my eyes hurt from squenching them shut. And was then forced to wait for results.
Rewind....push play.