These wee disasters are my fault. I should have guessed that WallieMart might be too much for a lad who dismantled the smoke alarm because it started beeping. Couldn’t be upset over that. James thought it was an explosive set to detonate. He thought he was saving the apartment from blowing up.

Not that I knew that until I got home of course. He hadn’t called. He took my question of what happened as an order, and I got a report that the “potentially explosive” device had been disabled and the apartment had been searched for further such devices.

Not the first time it’s happened. At least the landlord was understanding about it. Is still understanding about such instances, I should say.

I was right there beside him for the shopping trip, though. Picked a place with cheap prices, but didn’t consider just how vulnerable he would be in such a setting. I’m so stupid sometimes. I hated it when people stared at me after I first got fitted for a prosthetic. That’s why I covered it. No more skirts or dresses for me. No more open toe shoes. Of course he wouldn’t want others seeing. I should have known that. That I should have known.

The tension practically radiated off him earlier in the store. I should have tried harder to set him at ease. Should have just taken the hint and left. We needed groceries though. The car was low on gas. Didn’t want to make two trips. Should have just taken him right back home.

He needed things though. More than grocery shopping, it was for his necessities, and I can’t decide those for him. My shampoo obviously isn’t right for his hair, or it wouldn’t still be so greasy. And what if he decides he wants to shave? I don’t have shaving cream stocked away in the bathroom. A person has to have more than two pairs of joggers to swap between throughout the week. I needed him there for shopping. He needed to be able to make his own decisions and know they were his to make. 

People whispered away in the bath and beauty section. A wain blatantly pointed and shouted at him while we were standing over by the men’s shirts. That’s when he started tucking his left arm behind his back whenever someone walked nearby. That’s when my brain should have connected the obvious dots of why he was so anxious.

Some lads had banged into my cart sending it into the shelf sometime after the wain’s shouting. I was pulled out of the way before cans of soup could fall onto my head from the impact. Wasn’t hurt a bit thankfully. Neither was he. 

It got so much worse after that. Instead of admitting defeat and just paying for the groceries, I circled back around to the clothing sections. Back to the bath products. Gave a second round of carefully worded encouragement to pick something: a body wash, a shampoo, a graphic tee, something. And then something popped maybe an aisle or two over and a young wain started screaming at the top of its lungs.

Suddenly green apple detangler and fizzy peach volumizing shampoo bottles were scattered around the floor. James had been half-crouched among them, knife in his hand out of nowhere, looking for danger. Thank God no one else happened to be in the aisle at the time.

I hated to do it, but what with security cameras everywhere it was possible someone would be sent to throw out the “crazy lad with a knife” if I couldn’t get him to put it away. I had to be stern with him. The vacant look he got as he hurried to straighten and tuck away his blade broke my heart.

I apologized. Did so over and over between then and getting home, but it hadn’t made a difference. I couldn’t convince him I wasn’t angry, and he wouldn’t move from under the window where he kneeled right after getting through the door.

A second trip later in the week hadn’t gone much better. The long- sleeved shirt hadn't helped. He didn’t seem to mind waiting in the car while I sent out a few letters at the post office. Was completely calm on the drive over. Soon as we stepped into the dollar store the same tension bled into his posture. He kept a close eye on anyone who got near me. Wouldn’t engage when I tried to encourage him to pick some clothes. Then, like in WallieMart, something set him off into a panic. That time… we did get kicked out of the store.

A few vets at work said it was normal to be jumpy in crowds for a while. You get used to being hypervigilant, looking over your shoulder, assessing everyone you see for threats they said. Have to have clear sightlines of exits for a quick escape. Loud noises would definitely set someone off if you had been under fire before, or for any number of reasons. Could still affect someone months or years after getting home from service, they told me.

I knew that, of course. Had expected those issues to be brought up, but I had been hoping for more specific advice on how to help. Sophia still wouldn’t take my concerns about James having some kind of deeply rooted disconnection with his humanity seriously. Kept unhelpfully reminding me that he needed professional help, and I should send him on his way if his trauma was too much for me to deal with. She had told Dylan, apparently, after the third time I had come to her for advice on that matter. I found that out when he interrupted my lunch break one day.

Despite my apprehension, he hadn’t dismissed that particular concern of mine being a possibility. He cautioned me against taking on more than I could handle. Scolded me for not reaching out to him too. Other than that, he had listened, taken notes, and told me he’d keep in touch. 

The first evening Dylan stayed over for dinner, James had a panic attack because he couldn’t keep his meal down. That’s when I learned about refeeding syndrome and the like. My coworker kept track of the moments in between where he stood stiffly by the window with a thousand-yard stare when something would be said to him. A few evenings of experimenting with speech, which I was strongly against, and I was learning about the dangers of conditioning. A fuller conversation with James instead of simply testing the effects of direct and indirect statements was attempted on Saturday. He wouldn’t talk until I told him it was alright to answer, which I think he must have misinterpreted as an order somehow because why else would he have immediately started responding? A couple “The Ghost is…” statements, me reminding him that his name is James, and his switch to “The James is…” statements and I was learning about dissociation, possibly multiple personalities.

Multiple personalities. I’ve never – But Dylan seems to think it could be a possibility. 

Then again, he thinks there are lots of possibilities for what’s happening with James. Lots of possibilities and no concrete answers unless he decides to give a full name and get counseling and talk about what actually happened.

It's been exhausting for all of us. I can’t even imagine what he’s going through right now. I told him he was safe here. My coworker has been poking and prodding at him, not that he’s getting many answers, and that must be so frustrating.

God, what am I doing?

Conditioning? Recovery from starvation? Sensory overload? Extreme hypervigilance? Dissociation? 

I thought James had PTSD from service. I knew whoever had been in charge of him was horrible. That had been obvious from the way he cried over the idea of warmth. The way he insisted he was a weapon. 

What triggers are causing him to dissociate? How am I supposed to know when he’s dissociating? What if he’s been doing it regularly? What do I do with that kind of information? And how do I explain to him that my coworker has been coming by to check on him because we’re worried, not because we want to hurt him? He’s even jumpier around me now because of Dylan’s visits.

I don’t know what to do…

Catch yourself on. You can’t let this information go to waste. If he’s staying long term, you need to be able to see the signs. You need to know what’s going on so you can help.

It’s so much though… Why would someone ever want to cause another person so much pain?

It’s miraculous. It’s a miracle he got away from the handlers that abused him for so long. It’s a miracle he ended up here and not somewhere dangerous.

“It was good to see you, James. Whenever you feel up to it, you can stop by the VA. We could connect you with resources to help you get back on your feet when you’re ready.”

Dylan waved to me as he walked out. A wee bit of tension bled away from James’ shoulders once it was just the two of us.

He’s so anxious. And exhausted.

“That was the last visit. I’m sorry he made you so nervous. He was only checking on you. We’re worried.”

He’s so tired. I wish he could just sleep. That medication they prescribed is useless.

“These should help the next time we try to go shopping. Ear plugs or noise canceling headphones to choose between,” I said, holding up the items I’d been given only minutes ago.

Why can’t he just…

I’m so frustrated with these night terrors. I know being exhausted has got to be making everything harder on him. Why won’t the medication work?

“We’re gonna figure this out, James. Wasn’t easy for me to figure out things myself the first time around. I won’t let you deal with this alone.”

If only he could sleep…