Chapter Twenty

 

Finnley

 

“Finnley Hollins?”

The soft voice in the doorway to my hospital room made my head snap up. A woman in her mid to late thirties poked her head in. Her strawberry blonde hair was tied to the side in a long, wavy ponytail.

“Yes?”

She entered with a smile that brought out creases around her mouth. She wore black slacks and a white blouse with a chain around her neck which held a hospital name badge telling me she was the psychiatrist Aven had wanted me to meet.

“My name’s Dr. Erin Kelby. Do you mind if I come and chat for a bit?”

My muscles tensed, but I bit back telling her no and simply nodded. I’d promised Aven, and like he’d said, if I didn’t like her methods, I could call it quits.

She dragged a chair next to the bed and propped herself on top. She carried a small notepad and pen which she placed aside on my hospital tray next to my empty lunch plate.

“I hear you had your appendix out. How are you feeling?”

I shrugged and adjusted myself on the bed, feeling the pinch in my side. “Good as new. Just want to go home.”

“Nobody likes hospitals.” She smiled warmly and watched me closely from behind sea-green eyes. “I heard you caused a bit of a commotion in the ER yesterday. Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Not really, I thought but sighed, knowing I’d promised Aven I’d at least try.

“I… I didn’t want them to put me out for surgery. I panicked.”

“How come?”

I blew out a breath and pinched my eyes shut for a moment, knowing if I didn’t jump in she’d just weasel it out of me little by little.

“Because I’m afraid to sleep. Being put under is no different, and I had an anxiety attack when I realized that’s what was going to happen.”

“That would be pretty frightening.” She slid her pad of paper onto her lap and grabbed her pen. “Is it okay if we talk about it a little bit?”

I shrugged not agreeing one way or the other.

“If you start to become uncomfortable or sense an approaching panic attack, we can stop. I just need you to communicate with me, okay?”

I nodded. Although mentioning sleep tended to elevate my heart rate, I didn’t think a discussion would set me off, but lately, I had no idea.

“Is this fear of sleep ongoing? Does it happen every night or just on occasion?”

“Every night,” I mumbled. “All the time. Every day.”

“And how long have you had this problem?”

I shook my head and met her analytical gaze. “For as long as I can remember.”

She took that information and studied me a moment before dipping her head and jotting a few notes.

“Do you know what it is about sleep that frightens you, Finnley? Do you have nightmares, sleep apnea?” She trailed off, leaving the options open.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “None of that.” My blood surfaced and heated my cheeks as my heart skipped. It was humiliating owning the reasons. They had always felt like childish notions I should have outgrown years before but hadn’t. “I… I always feel like I’m going to die in my sleep. If I let it take me, then I won’t wake up again.”

I swallowed a hard lump and met her eyes. There was no judgment behind them, only a sense of wonder and understanding.

She wrote more notes and shuffled, crossing her legs. “On a typical night, how many hours of sleep do you generally manage?”

I laughed humorlessly at that question and washed a hand over my face. “None if I can help it. But I can’t sustain sleepless nights as much as I try. When my body defies me, I crash and sometimes get a few hours. In a week, I might average twenty at most. More times than not it’s less.”

Her eyes widened a fraction as she continued to write. “I see. And is it a restful sleep when you do crash?”

“No.”

She bit into the side of her lip, finished writing something, and put her notebook aside again. She pierced me with her green eyes, but it wasn’t a condescending look or one a doctor might get when they were about to tell you what to do.

“Do you have a bedtime routine?”

I flinched and laughed. “What, like when I was a kid?”

“Somewhat.”

“No.”

“What happens when you try to sleep, or it begins to command your body and you realize it’s happening?”

My skin prickled, and I averted my eyes as I shifted again, trying to find a more comfortable way to sit. “Umm… I can’t breathe. Then I get this rush of adrenaline that makes me need to run away, except, there really isn’t anywhere to escape to. I shake. Sweat. If I can’t stop it, I sink into a full-blown panic attack.”

“How frequently do you have panic attacks?”

I closed my eyes and leaned heavily on the back of my bed. “Almost nightly. Almost. Sometimes, I can prevent it.”

“Okay.” She blew out a breath and sat more forward on her chair. She touched my hand, bringing my attention back to her. “I’ve heard enough to understand that you are dealing with what sounds like a severe anxiety disorder based around your fear of sleep. It sounds to me like it’s consuming your life, and I’d bet it is being accompanied by many rash alternatives or quick-fixes which are probably not really helping.

“I’m going to be straightforward with you, Finnley. I do not have an easy fix. I can’t slap a prescription in your hands and make you all better. Sleeping pills are not what you need, and I think ten men couldn’t hold you down and make you take them. But, that being said, I do think I can help you.”

I studied her face, almost desperate for a solution. I’d always figured doctors would shove pills in my face and call it an answer, but she wasn’t saying that at all.

“How?” I asked.

“With a whole lot of work. I can’t promise that this will ever go away and that you will be free of your phobia, because the likelihood is, it will always hold power over you. But, I do know, I can help you manage it, and hopefully, together, we can find a solution where you regain more control over your life. It won’t be easy, and it won’t happen overnight, but if you are willing to work with me, we’ll get you on the right path. What do you say?”

I didn’t answer immediately as I absorbed what she said.

Will you try for me, Finn?

I’d promised to try, and I knew my life was so far in the shitter that if I didn’t do something soon, I’d run myself into the ground.

“Okay. I’d like to try.”

Her smile was bright, and she squeezed my hand.

“Good. Now, I want to make a suggestion right here and now. You can say no but hear me out first.”

A knot formed in my gut, and I prepared for her to announce some radical requirement that would inevitably have me running for the hills.

“I want to prescribe you an anti-anxiety medication.” She held up a hand when I opened my mouth to protest. “Listen first before you object. Most anxiety meds cause drowsiness, I know. It’s because they include muscle relaxants, that in turn, make you sleepy. But, there are some known as selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors that do not interfere with sleep at all. They work a little differently. The inhibitory effect increases your brain’s level of serotonin, which in turn, regulates your fear processing in your brain. I’d like to prescribe you one of those. You can read up on it and check everything I’m saying if you’d like, but I do feel it would be a solid stepping stone before we delve into some methods to help you handle this phobia.”

My heart took on an erratic rhythm, but I pushed through and thought of Aven and the countless times my issue had created a wall in our relationship.

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s a start. I’ll write you a script, and you decide what to do with it. Will you meet with me a couple times a week? I think it would be helpful in the beginning. After we have something to work on and we’ve talked a bit we probably don’t need to meet that often.”

“Okay.”

She stood and collected her notes. “I’ll be back with the script, and I’ll book you an appointment.”

 

* * *

 

I was released the following morning, much to the hospital’s joy I was sure. Aven had been allowed to stay the second night as well, but it had been rough. I’d had a brutal panic attack in the middle of the night, and the nursing staff had been set to call a doctor to get an order for a sedative. Thanks to Aven putting his foot down, it hadn’t happened.

“This isn’t my house,” I said as Aven pulled into his driveway.

“Nope. You are staying with me for a couple of weeks until you get the clear to return to work. And no arguing.”

I pressed my lips together, the biting words on the tip of my tongue. “None of my stuff is here.”

“Yup, it is. I brought you everything you’ll need from your apartment and have you all set up. I even gave you part of my dresser and a drawer in the bathroom.”

I rolled my head and looked at him in the driver’s seat, mischief filling his chocolate brown eyes.

“You know, most boyfriends ask their partners if they want to move in with them before they relocate all their things.”

Aven shrugged. “Most do. I’m not most.”

“Clearly.”

“Come on,” he said as he pulled his door open. “I’ll help you get inside and comfortable, then I’ll make you something decent to eat that isn’t hospital food.”

I unbuckled my belt and groaned as Aven helped me stand. I could walk around much better than I could on day one, but I was slow, and the pull against my staples hurt if I wasn’t careful.

“Are you going to make me eat vegetables?”

“Yup.”

“I thought you loved me.”

He kissed my cheek before unlocking the door. “I do, which means I want to keep you around longer.”

Instead of depositing me on the couch like I expected, Aven steered me directly to the bathroom.

“What’s going on?”

“I thought you’d like a shower to get the hospital ick off.”

It sounded blissful, but I wasn’t sure I had the strength to stand for that long. Aven carefully rid me of my shirt and pants, being mindful of my incision before backing me to sit on the closed toilet lid.

He set the water temperature and let the shower run while he turned back to me. “Up,” he commanded as he reached out a hand. “I’ll help. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

I stood and leaned my head on his shoulder as he slid my underwear to the ground. My body didn’t seem to care that I was barely out of surgery, and my dick stood at attention the minute Aven’s warm hands skimmed over my skin.

“Mmm,” he hummed in my ear, sending shivers to course over my flesh. “Behave. No hanky panky, doctor’s orders.”

“You act like I can help it.”

He lifted my head from his shoulder and scanned my body, his gaze landing on the staples on my right, lower abdomen. Grimacing, he traced a finger in a wide circle around the area.

“How are you feeling? Are you sore?”

“I feel like someone cut me open and removed a vital organ.”

He chuckled and moved his attention to my face. “Not a vital organ. You’re better off without it.”

“Your opinion. We were quite attached.”

He chuckled and kissed my lips before nodding to the shower. “Hop in, I’m right behind you.”

Showering together was torture. Never mind that I couldn’t bend or contort my body properly to wash, but having Aven do it for me, feeling his soft hands gliding over the more sensitive parts of my skin was a torment like no other.

He knew sex was off the table, yet he seemed hell-bent on causing me agony. “My dick is clean. For the love of God, stop touching it.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he chuckled against the crook of my neck. He didn’t sound sorry. “You’re hard to resist.”

When he still didn’t stop, I physically removed his hand and laughed. “Well, you better get used to it. Out of commission. You heard him. No orgasms for a couple weeks. None. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Which means, no more touching because it’s cruel, unnecessary torture.”

Aven sunk his teeth gently into my shoulder with a growl. “Fine. Come on. I’m gonna feed your cranky ass, and we’re gonna talk about what Dr. Kelby said.”

Removing Aven’s hand from my waist, I returned it to my dick. “You know what, never mind, keep fondling.”

Aven gave my member a squeeze, making me suck air between my teeth before he released me and reached over to turn off the shower. “No deal. Shower’s over.”

 

* * *

 

“Do you want me to come in with you?”

I’d considered during our drive if I wanted Aven to join in on my sessions with Dr. Kelby yet. Part of me liked his support, but another part was worried where my sessions might lead, and I wasn’t sure I wanted him to learn about my father’s fucked up parenting style while we sat in some shrinks office. It would be better if I revealed it to him on my own time.

“Nah, I’ll be okay. Will you wait for me out here?”

“You know I will.” He kissed my cheek and gave my hand a squeeze.

It’d been two weeks since my surgery, and that day was my fourth appointment with Dr. Kelby. We’d discussed a little about my job and worked out a bedtime routine that I was supposed to adhere to. She’d told me to expect failure because my issues couldn’t be solved overnight. And I was walking into that appointment with very few wins that week.

Dr. Kelby’s in-hospital office was small but decorated with enough elements to keep up a warm, inviting atmosphere. Her windowsills held a number of potted plants, and there were bookcases on either side of the room which were filled with an assortment of medical texts and photographs. She didn’t have a couch or anywhere particularly comfortable to sit, but it also wasn’t her main office, so I didn’t judge the hospital-style seating of hard, cloth-covered, steel-framed chairs.

“Good morning, Finn,” she said with a huge smile as I made my way into the room and sat on the waiting chair by her desk.

“Good morning.”

I’d been there three days before, so it wasn’t like a whole lot of time had elapsed. Regardless, we started right in with her opening questions. I was already familiar with the routine. “How have you been sleeping?”

I pressed my lips together and frowned. “Not great.”

“Are you still staying with Aven?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about your routine and how it’s going.”

My strict routine was a combination of the doctor’s suggestions and my own minimal contributions which we thought would be a good stepping stone to promote better sleep habits. Primarily, they included no caffeinated beverages past three in the afternoon, a warm shower or bath right before my designated sleep hour of eleven o’clock, remaining in a proper bed each night, and no television after eleven, either. It was juvenile, and I struggled to accept such rigidity as a thirty-one-year-old man.

“I do fine with the no caffeine thing. Aven thinks it makes me miserable, but I can handle it. Warm showers, no problem, but I have yet to spend the night in bed.”

“Do you at least start there?”

I pursed my lips and tilted my head to the side. “I have good intentions, but no. I tried after the last appointment, but had a bad panic attack and pulled my staples. So, I didn’t try again.”

“Do you have panic attacks on the couch with the television on?”

I ducked my head and studied my hands. “Yes.”

“Then don’t use your surgery as an excuse. Have you decided to start that prescription?”

I sighed and shook my head. It had been a bone of contention between Aven and me, but I hadn’t summoned the nerve to try. I’d read and confirmed all Dr. Kelby had explained, but still maintained a worry that they would somehow make me drowsy.

She didn’t give me a hard time about my choice but asked me at every appointment.

“Finnley, today, I’d like to shift our conversation a bit and explore some other things that could be surrounding your phobia of sleep.

“Often times, Somniphobia is merely a symptom of other underlying fears or problems. I want to explore more into why you fear sleeping.”

My heart kicked up a notch at the suggestion of delving deeper. Somehow, I knew in my mind there was a lot more to it but hadn’t been courageous enough to face it head-on.

“Have you ever experienced panic attacks that were unrelated to sleeping? Ones that happened at other points in the day and not when you were fighting sleep.”

A few incidences came to the forefront of my mind. More recently, the day I’d completely lost it when I was about to work on the thirty-one-year-old woman who’d died in her sleep.

“Yes.” My voice was small, and the idea of telling her about that day brought a sheen of sweat to coat my skin. But it was better to speak of that incident than the other one that plagued me. “It was one of the worst ones I’ve ever had.”

“Can you tell me about it?” When I buried my face in my hands, she added, “If at any point you feel the need to take a break, we can.”

I explained about my meeting with Mr. Kennedy and his story about his wife’s passing, then, I described what happened when I’d gone down to the basement to perform her embalming—a procedure I’d done hundreds of times in the past. With my heart knocking against my ribs, I told Dr. Kelby about my flashback and subsequent panic attack.

“Have you ever had flashbacks like that before?” she asked when I fell quiet, my breathing a little more ragged than when I began.

“Never.”

“Who took care of you as a child, Finnley?”

I focused intently on a stain marking her desk, so I wouldn’t be pulled back into visions I didn’t want to see. “My mother was a stay at home mom until she died. After, my dad took care of me.”

“While he ran the funeral home?”

“Yes. If I wasn’t in school, he just brought me to work with him. He always told me I was never too young to start learning the family business.”

“And how old were you when your mom died?”

I swallowed a thick lump and met the doctor’s eyes. “Eight.”

“Losing a parent at such a young age is quite tragic. Children sometimes have a hard time understanding death, but you grew up surrounded by it. When you lost your mother, did you understand what had happened? Did someone help you through that grieving process?”

People die every day, Finnley. Put your tears away. I told you, your mama is just having her big sleep now, just like all these people who come to daddy’s work. At night, we have little sleeps, but when our time comes, we get to have a nice long rest. Understand?

“Not really.” I knew how damaging my father’s words were. Looking at the big picture, I saw exactly how my mind had been twisted and trained to think of sleep as something frightening. But I didn’t see how I could ever fix myself. “My dad explained death as nothing more than a big sleep. When I would cry, he’d tell me I was foolish. Someday we would all go to sleep forever.”

When the doctor didn’t speak, I met her gaze. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but I saw clear as she did that I’d hit the nail on the head. “I’m never going to get better, am I?”

She smiled, and it was full of hope. I clung to that look on her face, not realizing how desperately I needed it. My entire life had been exhausting, and I was so tired. “You will get better, Finnley. Like I told you when you were in the hospital, it may not be curable, you might never be without some fear, but I believe, together, we can make life a lot more bearable for you.”