Playing With Fire

Trigger Warning: Mental Health, Substance Abuse, Child Neglect

I take a final drag from my cigarette, then carefully put it on the ground and squash out the cherry. After I pick it up and thoroughly check to make sure there are no embers left, I flick it into the street and look up at the door to the psychiatrist’s office. I’m still annoyed with my PCP, the only doctor I’ve ever had, for making me go here about my panic attacks. When I protested, citing his extended knowledge of my history, his somber response infuriated me, “Damon, it’s because of your history that I feel a psychiatrist is necessary.”

Dr. Landry’s office is located within a strip mall, a glass door with a small white decal identifying it. I walk into a quaint waiting area with muted grey walls, two cushioned burgundy chairs that look like they came straight from the 80’s, and no receptionist’s station. Puzzled, I wonder how I am supposed to check in until I see a small sign above a little red button located on the far wall, parallel to a beige door. “In Session When Lit. Please Take a Seat.” I settle in to wait and pull out my phone.

Five minutes later, I hear the door open and look up. A short, slender woman with long glossy black hair is guiding a giant man who looks like he’s straight out of a biker gang out her door. His eyes are red and puffy as if he has been crying. “I’ll see you next week then, Mike.” she says. He nods curtly and walks toward the door. When he is a pace or two away, he reaches to his back pocket, pulling out a pack of Marlboro reds and a Zippo lighter. He flicks it open as he opens the door and walks out. The sound is crisp and concise and puts my lungs in a vice grip. I can feel the tension work its way up my neck as my heart begins to race. The panic ripples over me, pulling me to the brink of its mighty waves.

Dr. Landry breaks through the impending panic attack when she reaches out for my hand and introduces herself. Grateful for the distraction, I shake her hand and follow her into her office. She sits on a large brown pleather chair and gestures for me to have a seat on the matching love seat across from it. We exchange pleasantries, introductions, and reasons for the visit. Then, she sets down her notebook, leans forward, and makes deliberate eye contact with me, her bright green eyes sharp. “Let’s go ahead and dig in then, Damon,” she states. And that’s exactly what we do.

“Did you ever feel anxious prior to these episodes?” Dr. Landry prods. “Yes, since childhood,” I respond. “Well, let’s start there and develop a timeline. Perhaps we can find if there were underlying causes for your panic attacks. Was there ever a period in your childhood when you didn’t feel such anxiety?” I dig my nails into my palms as I internally dive into the abyss of my memories.

My past is a patchwork quilt - bits and pieces here and there, all crudely stitched together. I don’t remember much. My mind floods with snippets - my dad coming home drunk, my mom staying in bed for days at a time, and flashing red and blue lights illuminating our terrified faces. Peace in my home was sparse, if it ever existed at all.

An awkward amount of time passes while I rack my brain, desperately searching for just one little spark of anything but loneliness, fear, and guilt. Then I remember him, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth as I wonder how I could’ve forgotten him in the first place. “I had an imaginary friend when I was 5,” I say, my belly filling with warmth, “his name was Derek.”

“Explain to me what life was like with Derek,” Dr. Landry prompts, her eyes flashing with interest as she taps her pointed burgundy fingernails on her clipboard. I bristle at her eagerness. I know that she carries the prescription pad but I’m not thrilled at the idea of my most vulnerable moments being her entertainment for the hour. “Well,” I begin, forcing any hostility out of my voice, “Derek only existed before the fire.” I briefly stop because I begin questioning myself. My voice wobbles as I proceed, “I was really young so I have a hard time remembering, and I’m not sure everything I remember is entirely accurate.” “That’s okay, Damon. This is your narrative and we are working together to reconstruct it. If you remember later that something wasn’t right or you were missing details, we can fill in the blanks then,” she consoles. “Alright,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief. With that reassurance, we begin to dissect my memory.

Derek was also five and had dark hair and eyes like me, but he was taller than I was. He was braver, too. I dreamt up someone who shared the things I loved about me and I changed the things I didn’t. His personality filled in my gaps and allowed me to fill in his.

My parents fully indulged my friendship with Derek. I’m sure that they were grateful for the coping tool. They let me have a bunk bed in my room so that Derek could stay the night every night, keeping me out of their room because I was scared of the dark. He even got his own place set at our table because Derek wasn’t afraid to try new foods. In fact, he quite enjoyed it. And if Derek liked it, I would try it, too, without hesitation. I think that when I had Derek with me, my parents were actually happy. For that tiny snapshot of time, they had a son they could be proud of. A son that they actually wanted. It’s too bad that I had to go and kill Derek.

My fearlessness with Derek sometimes led to trouble. One time, at Derek’s insistence, I climbed out of my second story bedroom window and onto the roof. I fell off and broke my arm in two places. In the ER, I was adamant as I told my parents that Derek had put me up to it, and they accepted the answer without much questioning. I think that they were okay with some shenanigans if it meant that I wasn’t hulled up in my room, too scared to live life. Derek took a lot of the blame for my transgressions. But, in all fairness, most of my transgressions began with an idea from Derek.

One evening, we took our risky behavior too far. It was late fall, just a week before Thanksgiving. The air had a distinct chill to it. I could feel winter creeping in, its icy claws bared. I was in our back yard, walking the perimeter of the fence with Derek. We were debating which super hero was better - Batman or Spiderman - when I kicked something small and metal. I crouched down, picked it up, and brought it close to my face. It was my dad’s Zippo lighter. He must have forgotten it in his jeans pocket before they went to the wash and it fell out when mom was hanging the clean clothes to dry.

Panic filled me as I dropped the lighter to the grass. Dad had been very firm about it in the past. I was never to touch it, as it could seriously hurt me or someone else. Derek, however, was visibly filled with excitement. His eyes gleamed, a small flame of its own being stoked within them. “Put it in your pocket, Damon,” he instructed, “Let’s check it out tonight and then sneak it back in dad’s pocket. He’ll never know.” I was apprehensive, but I did it anyway. I wanted to be as fearless as Derek.

I hid the lighter under my pillow, not pulling it out again until after I had been tucked in and left to sleep. As I grasped it, my pulse quickened and my palms became slick with sweat. A ball of lead rested in my stomach and a sense of foreboding laced my every breath. Derek climbed down off of the top bunk and sat beside me. “Come on, Damon,” he teased when he saw the look on my face, “Be cool for once. It’s not a big deal, you big baby.” Rage rushed through me and I could feel my cheeks getting hot. I was not a baby, and I was sick of being treated like one. I flicked the lid open and began to tinker with the spark reel.

I didn’t expect to actually light the lighter. I didn’t think I had the power to summon the flame. So when it burst to life, I panicked. I tossed it onto the bed in front of me, the fitted sheet instantly catching fire. I was paralyzed in terror as the bedsheet became consumed in flame. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t get mom and dad. I would be in so much trouble! I had to fix it on my own. I grabbed my Power Rangers comforter and threw it on top of the flame in a feeble attempt to smother it. My five-year-old brain didn’t understand that I was just fueling it. Before I could do anything else, the room was full of smoke and fire.

My lungs burned as I dropped to the floor, sobbing hysterically. I tried to find my way to safety, but the smoke was too thick. I quickly became too disoriented to find a way out. The smoke was making it impossible to breathe. I finally gave up and had curled up in a ball on the floor when I felt a pair of strong hands settle around me, lifting me up. My dad had run into the flames, searching for me.

He rushed me outside where the three of us watched the fire engulf our home. When the firefighters arrived, there was nothing they could do to save it. They controlled the burn until it was extinguished. By then, the only home I had ever known was a pile of ash, smoke still rising from it.

I can’t remember much after that. I don’t know where we stayed or how we got the money for a new home. I don’t know how long it took to replace our belongings. The only things I know for sure are that my home life crumbled and I never saw Derek again. I think I was too scared of what would happen next if I allowed him back into my world.

Things got darker over the coming years. My anxiety controlled my every move. I was terrified that someone would find out that I had started the fire, but somehow it never happened. Analysts were able to conclude that the fire started in my room, but blamed faulty wiring. As the guilt gnawed at me, I retreated inside myself. I didn’t have any friends. I spent every possible moment in my room alone. I would read or quietly play with my toys, but I would not play outside or with other kids. I didn’t deserve to be carefree or have fun.

Dad began drinking heavily. When he stumbled in the door, his smell would give away the tone for the rest of the night. Beer meant dancing and jokes, obnoxious laughter, and no sleep. He’d stay up late into the night screaming the lyrics to, “Come On, Eileen” or “Anarchy in the UK.” Whiskey, on the other hand, meant rage. Dishes shattering against walls, profanities flying. It meant hiding under the table and hoping he wouldn’t notice me. Often I would fall asleep there, waking with a stiff neck as dawn began to break.

Mom would have some days where she was almost normal, but most of them were varying states of depression. On the mild days, she would go about the house cooking and cleaning, but she wouldn’t say a word, and her eyes would be void of any life. She’d stare into space as she stirred spaghetti sauce, incarcerated in her own mind. On the bad days, she wouldn’t leave bed. No amount of begging could pry her out. She was dead to the world.

One day, mom and dad’s new worlds collided. It was a whiskey day for dad and a stay-in-bed day for mom. Dad hadn’t noticed me in my hiding spot as he stormed to their bedroom. I stayed frozen under that table, too terrified to move. I longed for Derek again, even if just this one time. He’d know what to do. Finally, I snuck to the door and pressed my ear against it. “…my son, too!” dad hissed, “You don’t get to have a monopoly on disappointment or sadness. You deal with it. I deal with it. This is the hand we’ve been dealt and we can’t change it.” Tears welled in my eyes as I ran to my room. They may not have known that I started the fire, but they hated me anyway without Derek around to redefine md. They hated the real me. I wanted so badly to be the imaginary one that night as I cried myself to sleep.

We never talked about that night, or the past at all for that matter. It burned up in the fire, too. Silence was the glue that held our family together, but it ultimately tore us apart. When I moved out, I cut contact with both of my parents. The silence was too loud to accept, so I quietly severed it. I’m not sure they even noticed.

I’m so lost in my memories that I start when Dr. Landry speaks. “That’s a great place to stop for today,” she says, filling out a script pad. “I know this is hard, but you’re doing great. Keep in mind that often you have to face your past in order to fix your future.”

When I walk out onto the street, I take a much needed cigarette out of the pack, lighting it with a match. I triple check the match is out before disposing of it. I inhale deeply and pull out my phone, Dr. Landry’s words echoing through my brain. “You have to face the past to fix your future.” I dial my mom’s phone number before I can change my mind. She answers the phone on the second ring, her voice tired and laced with resignation. “Mom,” I say, “I’m sorry to bother you out of the blue, but I was wondering if I could talk to you about my imaginary friend growing up.” She sounds confused when she answers. “Imaginary friend?” she questions. “Yeah,” I say, “Derek. Remember him?” The other line is silent for so long that I almost think that my mom hung up. When she finally speaks again, her voice is thick with emotion and laced with concern that borders on panic. “Damon, Derek wasn’t your imaginary friend. He was your twin.”