Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
She’s no mother.
She’s a parasite.
I’ve just cleared the threshold of my place and shut us inside when Cassidy’s hand extends, palm up.
I glance at her outstretched hand and then back to her face. Her head tilts, and I know she’s waiting for something.
“What?” I say, nose wrinkled.
“Give it to me,” she says.
I narrow my eyes, trying to determine what she could possibly be talking about.
“Give you what, exactly?”
She sighs heavily. “Your phone, Aiden. Give me your phone.”
I continue to stare at her, completely dumbfounded, but she explains.
“There will be no TV or looking at your phone. None of that. You’ve had enough for one night. We can deal with all of this tomorrow.”
“Don’t you think I should know exactly what she said? To be prepared?”
She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Aiden, what difference is it going to make?”
“Typically, a good defensive strategy is key not to being slammed by the media and having your career ruined.”
I’m practically reciting Mike verbatim from prior threats where my mother is concerned.
“Your defense is going to be simple,” she says, taking a deep breath.
She looks like a seasoned publicist at this moment, with a slightly more empathetic demeanor.
I lean back against the door. One eyebrow lifted.
I have no idea what she could possibly be thinking, but I’m curious to hear what she has to say. If one thing is true about Cassidy, she never ceases to amaze me.
“Well, you obviously can’t make it a bad thing. Too many people in this world are afflicted by the same struggles. You don’t want to alienate them or make them feel as though they should be ashamed.”
My mouth drops open. It’s not like I have some warped idea that I’m the only person in this world that has compulsions, but I’ve been too consumed with trying to conceal my own to consider how someone would feel if they knew I’d been hiding them out of embarrassment.
“Go on,” I say, giving her the floor.
She stands up tall and dives right in. “You’re going to own it, and you’re going to tell them you weren’t purposely hiding anything. Your focus is on hockey and playing well, and you’re just living your life.”
“I’ll tell them that, yes, I have rituals, but so do other hockey players,” I say, cutting in to offer more ideas.
Things that are genuine among all the white lies I’ll inevitably tell. Because the truth is, I was hiding my compulsions. I grew up being told they were weak. That I was weak. My mom drilled into me that the behaviors I had were not normal and that normal kids would think I’m strange. They had me convinced that the world was against me, even as a child. So I hid those habits as much as I could to protect myself from the harsh world.
The thought of those years and all the abuse washes over me, pressing down like a weight on my chest, threatening to suffocate me.
“But you admit that it’s not all rituals. You’re going to have to be honest. And tell them how you’ve just recently made the decision to seek help to manage your compulsions.”
I clear my throat, but my words still come out hoarse. “I am?”
She bobs her head once. “You are. First thing tomorrow morning, you’re going to research doctors and call the best.”
I know she’s right. I do need help. As incredible as Cassidy has been, she won’t be here forever. I have to find ways to control the urge to sort everything. I need to simplify my rituals, because right now, they’re overpowering my life and making it difficult to get basic tasks and work completed in a timely fashion.
“You’re going to look into that camera, which will act as an extension into every person like you out there. You’ll tell them that there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Anxiety and compulsions can be life-altering and difficult to manage, but they do not define you. You can be a fantastic doctor, or a lawyer, or even a hockey player, and still deal with all of this.” She takes a deep breath. “You’re going to tell them that you’re confident that there are ways to get help.”
I look up into Cassidy’s eyes. “I wanna help people like me, Cass. People who don’t have supportive families. People who don’t have the funds to chase down the best care. I wanna help. I need to.”
She smiles at me. “Then you will.”
I blink a couple of times, taken aback by how confident she is. How determined to help.
“How?” It comes out as barely a whisper.
“You could start a blog or a website where resources or information are compiled and distributed.”
I chew on my lip, mulling her idea over. It sounds like a lot of work, something that I’d love to offer, but will likely not be able to facilitate between my compulsions and hockey schedule.