The Tentacles of Trauma

Content Warning: mental health, suicide, physical violence and gore

Heartbreak washed over me as I watched my wife set the dinner table for four, preparing the plates with such precision that they looked ready for a photoshoot.

I poured glasses of water for the table and Chardonnay for myself and Amy.

“Ellie. Jamie. Time for dinner, girls,” Amy yelled from the kitchen.

I glanced at the clock: 6:42 pm. The familiar sorrow flooded my senses. The walls of my chest caved in, crushing my heart and lungs from every angle. As I clawed at the pain, I dropped the wine bottle onto the floor—barely even registering the crash as it broke into hundreds of small, sharp shards.

Staring at the pieces, I wondered for a moment if that was what flowed through my veins: small, sharp fragments of my fractured soul, slicing me open with every memory.

When I’d first felt this tightness in my chest four months ago, I’d been convinced it was a heart attack. All I could think was “I’m dying"—every thought only seemed to make the pain more intense. My rib cage had transformed into an unrelenting vice, its hold growing stronger and more painful with each breath. My lungs fought to draw in air; my inhalations grew shallower as my pulse thrummed faster. I could hear the thumping of my heartbeat in my ears—the only comfort was knowing that my heart was still beating.

I knew I was dying. Surely, only death could feel this agonizing.

“Richard, good news: You aren’t having a heart attack. We think it’s a panic attack. We’ll get you some fast-acting medication to help. You’ve been through a lot, so we also want to set you up with our hospital’s psychiatrist, Dr. Marlow, and a psychologist, Steven Timewell, for long-term management.”

A panic attack.

I nearly laughed when the ER doctor suggested a panic disorder. It wasn’t possible that this intolerable feeling was the result of a psychological issue. He was mistaken. He had to be. I had never struggled with anxiety before, let alone enough to cause a full-blown panic attack.

He gave me Lorazepam, and, despite my conviction of his misdiagnosis, I felt better in less than half an hour. It had been a panic attack.

The memory of that first attack snapped me back to the present. The hallway closed in on me as I walked towards the bathroom.

“Where’s Jamie?” Amy’s intonation voiced genuine curiosity about our daughter’s whereabouts.

“She can’t make it to dinner tonight, Mom.” Ellie’s resigned answer tightened the vice, constricting my airway as the increased weight nearly incapacitated me.

I fumbled through the medicine cabinet for the miracle drug I knew would pull me out of this anxiety-ridden stupor. Grabbing a pill, I returned to the kitchen to wash it down with a swig of water.

In my detached state, I had forgotten about the wine that spread across the tiles. I stepped in the growing puddle, my sock instantly cold and wet against my toes. A guttural groan escaped my mouth as I reached for my drink.

After swallowing the pill, I looked down at the mess. A bright red liquid had mixed with the white wine, making it a dark shade of pink. I must have cut my foot on one of the broken pieces.

I stood for a moment and stared blankly at the unexpectedly beautiful sight—a mesmerizing pattern formed as red tendrils reached through the wine. Then my awe was shattered as intrusive thoughts overpowered my mind.

I imagined that the blood was my anxiety. My grief. My emptiness. The thread-like ends were the tentacles that gripped every inch of my being, dragging me down to drown in my sorrow and pity.

A knot in my stomach unraveled into a hollowness—a black hole I knew would send me into a spiral if I didn’t fight the demons of my mind.

I couldn’t let my afflictions take me over, as the blood took over the wine; I had to stop the submersion before I was lost in the dark depths of my being.

I lifted my foot and removed my sock to assess the damage: a few open cuts, but no signs of any stuck shards. I haphazardly blotted the wounds with a paper towel and hobbled back to the bathroom to sanitize and bandage my sole.

Afterwards, I returned to the mess and carefully mopped up the pink fluid with paper towels and swept the glass into the dustpan.

“Are you coming, darling?” Amy called from the dining room.

“Just cleaning up. I’ll be in shortly,” I yelled back as I moved to throw out the blood- and wine-covered glass. Once the area was spotless, I grabbed the full wine glasses and the cups of water, awkwardly nestling them in my arms and hands to avoid a second trip.

My foot hurt as I limped slowly toward the table. I tried to focus on not spilling the drinks, but it didn’t work; I left a trail of water from the kitchen counter to the doorway.

“Honey, can you grab some of these?” Before Amy could take the wine glasses, I watched as they fell. One landed on the table, its contents spreading across the surface. The other tumbled to the ground, and the pale-yellow Chardonnay slowly oozed across the floor until it had wrapped around each of the transparent splinters that had once formed the perfectly smooth wine glass.

I chuckled at the situation. Of course, this would happen right after I cleaned up the other mess. Of course.

That opened the door, and I laughed outright at the train wreck of the last ten minutes. The panic attack, dropping the wine, cutting my foot, sloshing the water, and then spilling the wine again. It was so frustrating that all I could do was laugh at the absurdity of my clumsiness.

Amy, now wine splattered, laughed, too—light and airy, the same laugh I fell in love with thirty years ago. As her shoulders moved up and down with each exhalation, her smile lighting up her entire face, I was struck by her beauty and ease.

I glanced over at our daughter Ellie to find her staring at the empty seat next to her. Where Jamie used to sit. I stopped laughing and was once again filled with an overwhelming solemnity.

I sat down at the head of the table. Amy was to the right of me, and Ellie sat across from her to my left. An uncomfortable silence swelled for a long moment. Guilt consumed me for finding a moment of happiness, especially in front of Ellie.

Amy was always the one to break the silence. “Is Jamie at a friend’s house tonight, Ellie?”

I blinked in disbelief at Amy before turning to Ellie. Her body stiffened in response to her mom’s question. When she looked over at me, my heart broke; her eyes cavernous—deep and hollow—worn down from the unyielding pain.

“Amy.” Her name slipped out more coldly than I’d anticipated. I thought I saw a twinge of relief on Ellie’s face when I said her mother’s name. I also didn’t know how to respond to my wife’s inquiries about Jamie.

It had been a year and a half since Jamie died in a car accident on her way home from the prom.

Against our instructions, she had stayed out past curfew to go to an after-party with some classmates. She’d ridden with her boyfriend, and both of them had been drinking.

They should have called us for a ride or made plans for a designated driver.

It’s horrible, but as much as I love Jamie, I also resent her for making such foolish choices and fracturing our family beyond repair. If she had made different decisions, she would still be here with us, where she belongs.

Amy had never accepted the loss. At first, she’d mourned like the rest of us. She’d cried and begged for our daughter to come home. She’d taken flowers to the site of the accident and to the gravestone.

Then, one day, she’d stopped grieving; it was like a switch had been flipped. She’d resumed living as she had before: setting the table for four, buying gifts for Ellie and Jamie, and talking to both of them.

At first, Ellie and I had gone along with it. We’d assumed that her grieving process was different from ours, and we couldn’t bear to break her heart again when she seemed so happy believing in this delusion.

Ellie would sometimes answer as Jamie. They’d always looked so similar; maybe she saw Jamie in Ellie and couldn’t believe that only one girl was there.

But it only got harder, and it started to take a toll on Ellie’s mental health. Not only had she lost her sister, but, in a way, she’d lost her mom. Amy was still loving, but she never quite lived in the present with us.

“I’m sorry if that sounded harsh, Amy.” The subtle relaxation of muscles in Ellie’s face disappeared with my apology. That hurt, too—knowing that I was failing Ellie by indulging Amy’s fantasy of our former life.

They were both hurt by me: Amy at my frigid tone and Ellie at my cowardice.

Disappointment and shame filled me as they walked away from the table, leaving their dinners and me forgotten.

“Richard, you say this all happened last night?” Steve, my counselor, stares at me. I squirm at his pity-filled gaze.

“Yes. I’m stuck. How do I repair my family?”

He furrows his eyebrows. My eyelids no longer damming the water, I feel hot tears slide down my cheeks.

“I think you’re asking the wrong question.”

My lower lip moves forward slightly in a pout, and I tilt my head just a smidge, enough for Steve to recognize my confusion.

“You mentioned the night you had your first panic attack four months ago, but you never mentioned the cause. Do you remember?”

I scoff. “Of course I do. I couldn’t cope with the loss of Jamie.”

“That’s partially true. Do you recall anything else?”

I try to evoke the memories; instead, a feeling of panic rises in my body.

“No.”

“No.”

“No.”

I rise from the couch and press my palms against my temples, my voice rising with every “no” I utter.

Steve’s voice remains calm. “Richard, you’re safe here. What do you remember?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t handle the pain anymore.”

“It’s okay to face the truth. You’ve done it before.”

I pace the room. My feet move rapidly—maybe if I move fast enough, I can outpace the agony.

The feeling courses through my veins—burning like acid and hollowing me out. I’m overtaken by emotions, the truth still trapped within my subconscious.

I double over, my right hand clenching at my heart and my left hand at my stomach. I fall to the ground in a tense, inconsolable heap. Gravity brings the weight of my reality crashing onto me when I hit the floor.

“They’re dead. Oh, God. Amy and Ellie are dead.” I don’t breathe as I force the words out. They’re immediately followed by a howl of despair.

Steve is silent, letting me ride through the emotions.

Neither of us says anything for several minutes. My wails turn to sobs, then to whimpers.

“Richard, I want you to focus on your breathing.”

I take in a deep breath.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

I exhale and feel my body slacken slightly.

Again.

My muscles relax even more.

I do this over and over until I am calm, the pain now replaced by a numbness I've come to appreciate.

“Good. Back to last night. What do you think your mind is trying to tell you?”

My voice is monotone as I explain my interpretation to Steve.

“After Jamie passed, all we had were tense dinners.” Steve nodded, encouraging me to continue. “There was a bit of a reprieve when Amy started having her episodes. It didn’t take long before her break with reality took a toll on Ellie.”

“I know this is incredibly painful, Richard. This is a safe place to let go.”

“I can’t.” My voice trembles. I begin to pace again—I don’t even remember standing up.

“It’s okay, take your time.”

A carousel of images flips through my mind. The past thirty years of my life flash before my eyes.

The first day I first saw Amy.

The night I proposed.

Our wedding day.

Finding out she was pregnant.

Holding Jamie for the first time.

Her first steps.

Jamie finding out she was going to be a big sister.

Ellie’s birth.

The first family photo of the four of us.

Play dates and soccer games.

Dinners and holidays.

Smiles and laughter.

The sheriff at our front door at 3 AM.

The horror on Amy’s face when she heard the news.

Ellie’s utter devastation.

Jamie in her coffin. Somehow her, yet not her at all.

Amy’s delusional happiness.

Ellie’s growing discomfort.

Amy’s ignorant bliss.

Ellie’s pained expressions.

Amy’s limp form.

Ellie’s lifeless body.

Amy’s spilled wine mixing with their blood.

A gun in Ellie’s hand.

Amy’s wheezing.

The blood.

Ellie’s note.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I can’t live like this. I’m not Jamie. I’m doing both of us a favor. I’m sorry.”

My bloody footprints.

The ambulance.

Chest compressions on Amy.

An agonizing ride to the hospital.

DOA.

Time of death: 18:42.

The family I couldn’t save.

“Eleanor killed Amy.”

Silence.

“She couldn’t deal with her grief. And Amy. She didn’t mean to hurt us with her delusions.” More sobs escape me; my heart races in my chest.

“I found Ellie’s journal a few weeks later. Her darkest thoughts scribbled on the pages. If I had read it before, maybe I would have seen it coming. I could have gotten her help. I could have saved them.”

“This is not your fault, Richard.”

“Bullshit!” I scream at Steve.

I’m filled with an insatiable rage. I’m furious.

Furious at him for encouraging me to explore my repressed memories.

At Jamie for being so reckless and ruining our lives.

At Amy for making Ellie suffer so much that she saw no other way out.

At Ellie for killing her mom and then herself.

At her for not taking me, too.

With myself for surviving.

With myself for resenting Amy’s delusions only to suffer the same fate.

With myself for not being able to let go.

The tears won’t stop flowing. I have once again confronted my desolation. The injustice of my life.

“Was any of last night real?” I analyze everything.

The clock: 6:42.

Amy’s time of death: 18:42.

The spilled wine mixed with my blood.

Amy’s wine mixed with their blood.

I look at my foot. No cuts on my bandaged sole.

Repairing my soul.

“None of it was real. Am I going insane?” Terror seizes me.

“You’ve experienced a lot of trauma. I think your brain is trying to protect you from the truth. I am worried about you, though. You’ve had a major breakthrough today, and I’m concerned about your mental state. I want to make sure I am doing my due diligence, so I have to ask this question for your well-being. Do you feel like hurting yourself, Richard?”

“No, I—" My sentence trails off; I’m unsure how to respond. I do feel like a danger to myself. I know the only way to repair my family is to join them. “Ellie wanted me to live. She could have taken me, too, but she didn’t. I need to keep living for her.”

A necessary lie. If I told Steve the truth, he’d have to get me help. It would be a waste of resources. Give the bed, the meds, and the time to someone who might actually benefit from treatment. I’m a ticking time bomb, ready to self-destruct at any moment. I have nothing to live for.

The rest of the session goes by in a blur. Steve schedules another emergency appointment in a few days to check on me. I don’t bother to remember when he booked it; I doubt I’ll be around.

I close his office door and enter the empty waiting room. A calmness sweeps through me. A sense of clarity unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

I go to the elevator, focused on my newfound serenity. I bump into a woman, spilling her grape juice on the floor.

I open my bottle and pour water over it, watching those purple-red tendrils flow through. She looks at me, horrified. I respond with a manic smile.

If the tentacles of trauma and grief won’t let go of me, then I must let go of them. I must find and repair the family I couldn’t save.

“Have a good day." I smile and nod to the woman as I board the elevator, leaving the mess behind.

Bewilderment takes over the woman’s face—a feeling so contrary to my certainty and equanimity.

The elevator door closes; Jamie, Ellie, and Amy stand in there with me. I smile. “I’ll see you soon.”