I try something else. I gulp down the smoothie my husband blended with coconut and almonds. There’s no reprieve in my emotional system. I sit and stare at the Fun Ball I need to describe. What am I going to write? That it’s fun, fun in the sun? My eyes bulge as they hold in the tears. I didn’t have fun on this day some decades ago, when I was 13 years old.

I’m 13. Someone is doing things. To me. After school, every couple of days as I go to help out with their kids. Each time afterward, I run home, tripping over roses in the garden to get to my home’s front door. To safety.

Even a few decades later, every year, when the roses creep up from the earth, I fall into a depressive funk. The dinosaur-sized trauma monster barges out from the dungeon where I keep it, and with its tentacles, drags me into a smoking darkness. And for years and years, as long as the roses were out, I’d sit on the couch, just sit and sit for hours on end. Boiled eggs and toast on plastic plates for dinner. “What did you say?” my response to comments or requests.

Three years ago, my kids started complaining about my emotional disappearance as I collapsed into this trauma anniversary slump. I couldn’t be there for them in the way they needed me. So I called Sara, started therapy. I’m still in it now. This year I also started working at The Gift Place. Work gives me a sense of purpose that keeps my household organized, my kids fed well, and myself grounded. It proves that I’m capable and functioning well.

The other times I took up a job, I got fired during this rose month for not showing up at my desk. Now, I believed I could keep my fingers clacking on the keyboard because the monster dinosaur called trauma shrank to a midsize dog with therapy.

But it’s rose month and I can’t concentrate at my desk amid the tears. Too many things at work trigger the trauma memories that flood me with sadness. The only thing left to do is quit before they fire me. I need to keep my sanity and ego.

I can’t do as Sara suggested, ask sadness to wait. I just can’t. My younger self weeps and wails when I tell her to keep quiet for a little bit, even if I promise to hear her voice when I get back home. How can I hurt her now again by shutting her down? She was silenced enough back then. And even if I know I’m not 13 anymore, there is still that need to save her. Because no one else was there for me then.

And so I’m slumped on this hard office chair, staring at the blurry screen. resisting a talk with this little girl who is crying in my brain.

Thump.

I startle, look up.

Stretched upright against the large bay window is a black-and-white cat, its front paws clawing on the glass. Mouth wide open, spiky teeth, whiskers quivering. She emits a loud plaintive meow. Just what I need now, another whiny thing other than my child self to soothe. I ogle this cat. On the chain around her neck dangles a pink metallic heart pendant, Coco etched in white. It’s so dainty. Someone cares about this little thing. Something stirs inside me.

“Debby! Riva!” I shout from my desk, “do we have milk for Coco?”

“What?” A scratch across the floor, fast footsteps, Debby storms into my cubicle. “Are you feeding a cat?”

“Isn’t she cute?” I point to the glass.

Debby’s mouth opens into a big O. “Noooooooooo.”

I laugh.

“Don’t let it in!” Riva hollers from her perch.

“No worries,” I call out.

The cat drops from the window, arches her back, and lets out a sorrowful meow. Debby shrieks and runs off clutching her hair as if that could protect her.

I laugh again. It’s an I-relate-to-your-experience laugh. My fear knows Debby’s fear.

And I think I know the cat’s fear a little bit, too. But I don’t need to save her.

“Sorry, Coco,” I say, “you can’t come in. I have work to do.”

The cat lets out another drawn-out meow, then leaps off the sill unto the porch at the side. She’s going home where her owner will take care of her.

I settle back into my seat. The words on the computer screen have become clear as water. I take a sip from my smoothie, and then my fingers fly across the keyboard. The Fun Ball description rounds out nicely. I respond to some emails, then do a second run on the Fun Ball. When I’m done, I sit back to reread it. A small itch tickles my throat, and my eyes start to bulge.

The little girl inside me is crying again. Crying like a hurt kitten. I glance out the bay window, hear the whispers of Coco’s plaintive meows. It syncs with the little girl who lives in my heart. She was shut down back then, but I don’t need to save her anymore. She has me now, her adult, therapy-calmed self, who takes care of her.

Because in real time, I’m safe.

I conjure up Coco the cat in my mind’s eye, the dainty heart pendant dangling. And I have the courage to ask my younger self to wait and give me space.

“Sorry, my dear 13-year-old me,” I say, “you can’t come in now.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 903)