Awaken The Heart: The Awaken Saga, #3

Dear Reader...

As we continue our story with Drew and her friends, I want to warn you of a few things.

As you know by now, Drew has Anxiety and Depression; in this part of the story, we will experience some of her attacks along with her in detail.

Our characters will also be processing some PTSD from trauma.

The romance between Robert and Drew is blossoming, and so is some of their spice. This means some may find the context of their romance not appropriate.

Please read with caution and listen to your mental health.

Chapter 1: New Life, New World

Every morning, I am amazed to discover I’m no longer bound. The familiar layout of my farmhouse bedroom deepens the sensation of liberation. Things I despised years ago now bring comfort, a stark contrast to my previous feelings.

The sound of cattle mulling while they wait for breakfast. My father hums in the kitchen. How could I ever think my family’s farm is dull? I once felt confined but now appreciate its tranquility.

Oh, what a beautiful sight to behold. Eight hundred and fifty-seven acres of prime Colorado agricultural real estate. An heirloom of my mother’s family. When bequeathed to me, Drew Lizabeth Masen, I will be the fifth generation of my maternal line to hold the deed over the past 100 years. An idyllic countryside nestled within the majority of Colorado civilization gives an advantage to the transition I embark upon.

No longer am I the uptight, damaged soul I’d been for almost eight years. Like Winter processes into Spring, I transform into a vibrant woman, resilient in the face of life's challenges. This morning, I examine how my life shook off the storms and the garden of joy blooms.

The clouds of systemic indoctrination have finally faded, allowing the sun of love to permeate my life. The last time I felt this much mirth was before four long years of indoctrination at Graduate school. It was then that the cold swept in, taking hold of my free will. They crafted my thoughts towards a pastorate, a mindset that dictated my life for the betterment of the Denomination. Snow piled in as I accepted my three years of pastoral internship.

Things weren’t as bleak as they had been in Boston. For me, this period was like witnessing a winter storm from a comfortable chair. Nestled in with a blanket and a warm drink in your hands. The snow drifts grew, and I did not discern that the storm was locking me in.

I spent three years in my comfy place with a pastor I held in high regard. Now I understand what a rebel he was. He did not always buy the required dogmatics of the Denomination. He tried to teach me balance. How to find comfort in the preverbal storms of this world. Only now do I fully grasp his rebellious nature and how it has set me free from the labors of my indentured servitude inside the tempest.

Rev. Keith taught me to look for the light of God. To follow its guiding beam wherever it leads. Even if this meant going away from the Denomination, he made me promise to be true to myself no matter the costs.

For eighteen months, I served in my own pastorate; I tried to follow his example to the best of my ability. I failed in my rendition. I yielded to their will when the world grew as cold as a blizzard on the Eastern plains. For their storms were far more profound than I expected.

The Administration plied pressure on top of my growing pains. Stress and strain aggravated the old nemesis deep in my soul's darkest recesses. The creature of anxiety ruled supreme. The death of Rev. Keith added to this pervertible cyclone bomb, like a low front over a significant waterway.

The dragon grew in the storm, feasting on the troubles and tribulations. Six weeks ago, the dragon rained fire as the Administration threw my life into a vortex with monumental consequences. I was lost in the belly of a storm with no signs of breaking, leaving me to grasp for the rope to survive the maelstrom.

My lifeline came in the smiles of my collegial family and new acquaintance who has become the most indispensable person in my life. They pulled me in once more from the darkness into their warmth. I discovered a new reality taking shape. My spirit felt the call that could make me whole.

The new pink laptop on my old campaign desk indicates the progress towards an unknown paradise. A gift from my boyfriend, Robert Darcy. Fulfillment of his promise to bring me into the twenty-first century when we slayed the dragons. Together with the rose-colored smartphone, these tools harness me to the life I chose in my great spiritual awakening.

Of all my new tech, the phone is my favorite. If you can imagine something, there is an application to achieve your outcome. Besides the usual phone features like caller ID and voicemail, this phone holds apps like GPS. It's handy because I tend to get turned around...a lot.

A digital music player allows me to carry thousands of songs in my pocket. Who wouldn’t want a personalized soundtrack for their life? Of course, this handy little marvel is filled with many of my favorites and several playlists. All done by my heart's better half. But wait...that’s not all this little phone can do. The rose-colored machine allows me to watch full movies—an extraordinary way to pass the time in airports.

Undoubtedly, the best feature of all is the ability to video chat. To see Robert whenever I desire is a slight liberation. My new laptop is my preference, though; the 16-inch screen produces a larger image to ogle. All this new technology does as Robert promised. It ensures a new lease on life that we share, regardless of physical distance.

Two classifications form the basis of my life. The first are the days I spend in Colorado. Alone on my family’s farm. Glimpsing at Robert in the pixilated images delivered by a band of ones and zeros. Then, there are days I can touch him, and my solitude is over for a moment.

Alone days are spent adjusting to my new freedom. After all those dysfunctional years in ministry created a truncated sense of life. I must now relearn all the steps one needs to enjoy autonomy like someone who sustained a severe injury. Independence is a challenging accessory.

Most of the time, I feel like a kid in a candy store. Overwhelmed by the options. The anxiety rushes into the vacuum. After eight years of every moment being scripted, what could I expect? The more complicated issue is the fact that no one monitors me anymore. No one I must check in with to gain permission. Still, I try.

My mom thinks it sweet when I ask for leave to go into town. After a few days, she is a little alarmed when I continue to ask for simpler things. Is it okay to watch television? Can I go upstairs to talk to Robert on the computer? Her typical reaction is, Don’t ask pumpkin. Just notify me of your intention. Like you did in college. She is helping me the most with my re-education.

My major rehabilitation revolves around being myself and learning to manage my schedule. Choose my daily activity from a simple cup of coffee to work on Dad’s log book for planting. I must relearn to do nothing at all. The one thing anyone cares about is my happiness. A sense of normalcy resurfaces. I dropped to function without the standardized measure of anxiety, which has dominated my pastoral behavior. In this, a type of freedom forms. Like all individuals in recovery, I have setbacks. My old habits intrude on certain occasions.

Wednesdays are taxing. For the past eight years, I spent Wednesday afternoons studying. Without a Sunday sermon, papers, or some other religious reflection required. I find myself sitting in my comfy recliner. A theology book on my lap, wondering what I am supposed to do.

Robert suggested a couple of fiction novels when I told him after supper the first time it happened. The next day, an expensive electronic book...tablet...thingy arrives with ten already loaded. Now, Wednesdays are for reading about dragons and iron thrones. Unfortunately, Sunday mornings are taxing. They give a new definition to the term, Trial by Combat.

After thirty years of always having somewhere to be on Sundays by 7 am, my body clock is still preprogrammed to wake up at 5 am no matter what I try. The first weekend I was home, I went to church with my parents and had to leave the sanctuary ten minutes into bible study.

My stomach was full of knots, and my heart felt as if it could explode. I sat in the truck crying for thirty minutes before I remembered I could call Robert. The second week wasn’t so bad; I was out at Robert’s, and we stayed in bed all morning. The event gave a whole new definition to worship.

Minor setbacks are expected, and I find enjoyment in the mundane. I enjoy sleeping in or staying up. When I can. Life is fantastic in the variety. I forgot about the pleasant rhythm of the world. Yet, the best part of my days alone is always my nights visiting with Robert on the chat.

I’m not saying my life now is perfect. Yes. The days alone are better than the nightmare I lived in ministry. Of course, I have moments when the melancholy of my predicament settles in. Too many nights I’ve spent alone, longing to be in Robert’s arms. I crave the taste of his kiss. The scent of his sweet skin.

I appreciate that loneliness is the price for love at a distance. I understand Robert, in measure, shares every misery in the vacant miles. We bring it up as little as possible. Though they are never my favorite days, I comprehend the time spent apart holds importance. So, I cultured myself to accept them. Just as I educated myself to take the abuse in ministry, I must reestablish a true identity if Robert and I are to have a chance.

Another issue since Galien is time and what I should do with such a thing. My days are languishing due to a lack of preoccupation. When I riddle out the issue, I blame an internal flaw. I can’t comprehend my self-worth without some kind of societal contribution.

My first days of unemployment resemble more of vacation, so they were easier to handle.  Listening to everyone, you could conclude I had earned a bit of rest. Still, as the days have now turned to weeks, I’m becoming more agitated.

I am becoming idle, which is not how one changes anything. Not a proper response to this crisis, though becoming a workaholic isn’t either. If I jump too soon into work, I fear I could be lost again in the mire of such pursuits. Then again, if I don’t find something soon. My mother will find me installed as a master of this domain.

This only strengthens my perseverance in hunting for a new career. I enjoy the multiple hours I spend tweaking my resume and hunting job leads. Unfortunately, time and the economy are enemies. The market is in a downturn. It appears I am not the only person without a full-time job. About nine percent of the population in America joins me in this fruitless endeavor.

The final issue is a secret of sorts. A secret from everyone, including Robert. My anxiety continues to run amuck. In truth, the intensity of my attacks has lessened. No longer are they a metronome but an unexpected company. I attribute them to two distinct triggers.

Generator number one is Oliver Dempsey. His silence flares my nervous energy more than I care to acknowledge. The other instigator comes from the seed of doubt left festering by Emma Willis. No matter how much I wish. I’m not yet free of these shackles from the Administration.

This new wave of occurrences comes at night or early in the morning. A style that is familiar to my usual modus operandi. I learned to manage this version a decade ago. These attacks don’t come on slowly like their predecessors. There are no visible warning signs. This method follows a unique pattern. I’m content in sleep and jolted awake, gasping for breath, curled into a ball. Tears soak my pillow. In the worst attacks, the thing that awakens me is the screaming.

Something so profound to one's being can be unhinged in rapid succession. This is why I need a new purpose. To quell the cultivation of such noxious weeds. But where do I find a new career path? It’s a blessing  I took my old room in the basement of the farmhouse.

No one is aware of the recent apparition of my abnormality. My parents sleep unaware on the second floor, and the attacks have never happened with Robert present. In all honesty, he might be the antidote to all sad things. Well, that is my hope.

Chapter 2: Useful Diversions

Finding a way to be useful also takes the edge off my agony. By the grace of my father. Along with my oldest friend and farm supervisor, Michael Wilson. I have been allowed to assist with some of the daily chores.

I help Mike feed the cattle twice a day. Sometimes, I pick up irrigation tubes or move equipment. However, with the majority of the harvest complete, nothing is significant for me to do. Including Michael’s brother Jared, the three men had the preparation for winter down to an exact procedure. Tractor maintenance is the majority of what is left. This relegates me to mere company and tool grabber in the barn while Michael works on the engines.

This morning, the scent of coffee wafts through the vents, driving me out of bed. Quick to dress in my standard. Worn-out work jeans, faded t-shirt under a ragged State U hoodie, and boots. Function over fashion is the motto of the day. I must find something to do outside. Any work must be better than these night terrors. I round the stairs leading from the basement, and the windows in the mudroom are indigo. It appears I’ve beaten the sun out of bed yet again.

Morning, pumpkin. Want some coffee? My father’s cheery voice greets me.

Thought I would check if Mike wanted help feeding this morning, I slide by the island heading for the back door.

He hasn’t left the bunkhouse yet. Have some coffee. It’s chilly out there.

The days of Indian summer are behind. The scene out the kitchen window foretells his prediction. White crystalline frost nestles the grass. My trajectory changes, rounding the corner of the island. Pour coffee and heavy cream into my green mug. Then lean a hip on the counter as I turn back toward my father, Owen. We smile at one another before each sipping on our beverages.

Owen is a simple man. A farmer in the truest sense. He’s tall. Tough both in physical and mental respects. His face is wrinkled and leathery from the sun. Large hands that used to swallow mine carry the callouses from years of toil. Muscles are well-defined from heavy lifting and labor. His exterior exudes strength, but when you focus on my father’s face, you grasp his warm interior. His soft, gentle blue eyes are always filled with love for my mother and me. His smile exudes cheer. To me, this is my father; the farmer is someone else.

What are your plans this morning?

Disking down the wheat and bean fields today while Jared and Mike are prepping Combines for the corn harvest and finishing up the sugar beet digger and topper for next week.

That is early?

The third week of September, pumpkin, but you wouldn’t remember. You haven’t been around for harvest in years. His voice becomes a soft admonishment.

Sorry.

You were up late last night. Don’t you want to sleep in? My dad twitches in his seat.

Not tired. I’m defensive. I think all those years of getting up at four-thirty for morning devotion warped my body clock.

Well, work is good for what ails you. The cup comes to his lips. My father eyes me with speculation for a moment, settling in again.

The light flickers from the barn window, signaling my escape.

Michael’s here. My cup goes in the sink, and I head for the door without permission. Have a nice day, Daddy.

I crunch my way across the yard, my hands deeper in the pockets of my Carhartt. My father is right. Winter is on the way.

Morning, M. Sleep well?

I swear it might be warmer outside than in this old wooden structure. My breath condenses into visible fog along with every living creature inside.

I did. You’re up early, D? Michael pops out from behind the haystack.

I came to ask if you wanted help feeding.

Always.

His hands are loaded with the handles for the four, five-gallon buckets. His eyes hold a deep sadness, which I recognize all too often on him.

Michael Wilson took over as the farm supervisor when his father, Roland, passed a few years ago. Roland’s is another death in our extended family I regret. I use the term family because the Wilsons have lived on this farm for most of my life.

After a few prosperous years when I was younger, my father saw the advantage in hiring some live-on-help. The Wilson family came to work our farm, living in the bunkhouse by the barns. At the time, I was six. Michael was seven, and Jared was five when we first met.

Every day, we walked the mile and a half down the dirt lane to meet the bus for school. On the weekends, we played in the barn and hung out. We were the only company for one another until we could drive. To me, they are my brothers in spirit, if not in blood.

A funny part of our story is how much my mother and their mother hoped the Wilsons and Masens could be a real family one day. They spent years anticipating Michael and I would marry. Yet his mother never lived to behold the almost fulfillment of such a wish. She passed away from cancer when I was a freshman in high school. Michael and I began dating a few months later. We remained together until Michael graduated. We were naïve, happy, and in love. In the end, I shattered the fairytale.

On the night of Michael’s senior prom, he asked me to marry him. I didn’t figure having a fiancé back in Colorado while attending college in Oklahoma was a suitable idea. With a broken heart, I sent him to Norman.

When Michael left for college, I like to believe a natural separation would have happened. I simply ripped off the bandage. Part of my decision to stay home and go to State was based on what I did to Michael. I deemed some responsibility to take care of Jared in Michael’s absence. So, it was no surprise that Jared followed me to State the year later. I didn’t do a terrific job with my self-imposed sentence. Jared and I ran in different circles almost instantly.

In adulthood, we’ve remained civil during holidays and summer vacations. Worked side by side on the farm. However, Michael has always been like my brother. Our relationship never recuperated from my first blatant act of sabotage.

When Michael returned with his degree in Ag Business, he was ready to change our farm for the better. Taking over as much of the work as his father would allow, it was assumed I would return to work here when I graduated. I didn’t. I stayed in Fort Collins for a year, working for a nonprofit. Then, I moved to Denver to make a run at getting on in a State House office or with a Lobbying firm. I worked as an Assistant in the mineral rights shareholder office, making copies and running for coffee.

This allowed me to make decisions that would change my life’s trajectory. When I declared my intention to go to Boston and follow my call, Michael’s friendship showed the sparks of an old life. He voiced his opposition the loudest out of anyone. He never said it point-blank, but I identified his belief the path was a folly on my part. His only explanation was that he believed that living in Boston would change me for the worse. Funny...he was right.

Michael’s not unpleasant looking, I assure you. His face exudes manly strength. Particularly since Michael grew the goatee. The contours of his chiseled cheeks reveal his perfect dimples when he smiles, which is rare. His beautiful sky-blue eyes are indeed the windows to his soul. His perfect hazel-colored hair is shaggier than his father allowed, but he kept it that way when he returned home from college. I like him this way. Fits his personality.

Even today, when I’m so content with my relationship status, I remember why I once fell for Michael and how we were happy together. But as with most sweetheart relationships, the bitter reality settled, and we moved on. I discovered life and love in college, which proved how immature I had been at seventeen. Then, that love affair soured a year and a half after it began. My love affairs with Michael and Oliver started as friendships, building to love. We regressed to the fated stage of a platonic kinship.

This time, Robert and I fell head over heels with no other way. Our love feels different. Based more in reality, though, it is more like a daydream. I’m still processing and have no way to explain it to those who have never experienced such things.

Mike laughs, putting down the buckets. Glad my daydream glaze can still make him smile. He’s not the old curmudgeon he wants everyone to believe. Michael’s face softens.

Take these, His left hand rests two buckets on the ground. He grabs the Vita-Mix and sprinkles it on the other two. Head out for the mamas. I’ll take these to Carl, Pat, and Pete. Meet you with the bales.

The buckets are a lot heavier than I remember from high school. More likely, I’ve softened over the past thirteen years. In the two weeks of helping, I’m reconditioned enough to walk with the awkward attachments. I no longer need to stop seven times before reaching the feeding bunks. I’m positive the job takes me twice as long to get down the alley. Possible Michael gains some sick pleasure watching me relive my farmer’s daughter days. That might be the only reason he lets me.

Of course, by the time I reach the feeding bunk for the mama heifers. He has made the other end of the yard. Fed our bull, Carl, and the draft horses, Pat and Pete. To add insult to injury, he also has finished loading the tractor with the gigantic bale for the hay racks and is heading in my direction.

Morning, Charlotte, Mabel, Rose, and Marshmallow, I announce to the four waiting faces in the bunk. Come on, ladies, breakfast is on the way.

I inspect the meandering horde of slowpokes before I begin shaking the contents of my first bucket into the bunk.

The loader labors towards me before I can get the second bucket down. I hustle to open the gate. He drives in without pausing. Once the loader is in the pen, I shut the gate, shuffling behind toward the hay rack. Once the bale fills the cylinder contraption, my job is to snap the twines and pull the cords out of the hay. 

I wad them up in my fist as I jog across the pen. The process to exit is the same as the entry. Once the chain is around and locked, I hop on the tractor, lean on the wheel cover, and Michael gives me a ride home.

Nice to have you here. Michael nods toward the rising sun. You needed this back in your veins.

Yeah, I needed hay dust in my nose. It reminds me to take my allergy pill every night.

No, I’m serious. He taps my thigh with his gloved hand. You need to remember where you come from.

I know where I’m from.

I remember a girl who loved the outdoors.

I still do.

Maybe if you’re sitting on the grass reading a novel. You think you love the outdoors. Remember when you used to think a productive day ended covered head to toe in mud.

I grew up, Michael.

So did I, but I didn’t lose myself.

The house is in sight; I stand up to the edge and climb on the ladder.

Thanks for the ride home. I’ll bring Jared and your lunch down at noon. I bounce off the slow-moving machine.

Michael’s expression is disgruntled, but the tractor keeps lumbering forward. I am up on the back porch in less than a hundred steps. Why am I not in California right now? Other than the promise to Robert, we would take it slow. I cannot come up with a single honest answer.

Morning, Sweetie. My mother sings. Finish chores with Michael?

I suppose my mom looks a lot like me, or my appearance is like her. Her eyes are the same milk chocolate brown. Our hair would be the same brown if I didn’t use hair dye to turn mine Auburn. Though now, Allyson’s hair is fading gracefully from brown to silver. We are the corresponding average height. Her presence remains commanding while I shy away from confrontation. Her strength, compassion, and love all show through her timeless face. She hurries around the stove, flipping pancakes. She reaches over, pushing sausage around in another pan.

How is he this morning?

Fine, I stack two pancakes and three sausages into a sandwich on my plate.

A heavy sigh emanates as she turns with the coffee pot, pouring some into my freshly washed, green cup.

Wonderful to have you together again. Her joy drips over me like the syrup on my pancakes.

Mom. Mike and I are not together.

I reach over and take the cream bottle, splashing my cup. She blinks out of whatever daydream she finds herself.

I didn’t mean it that way, silly. I only meant it is right to have everyone together on the farm.

She returns to her pancakes. Thank heavens, my phone rang, notifying me it was Lexi.

Hey, soul sister, what’s up?

Wanted to check in. Find out if you have plans for the weekend. If not, you’re invited to our house for a barbecue.

Sounds like fun. A cheerful note colors my voice. Do you need me to bring anything?

How about Michael? Mom interjects under her breath.

I roll my eyes.

Naw. We’ve got it covered. Should I assume your attachment will be here this weekend?

He’s working. Premiere release event for the press.

Sounds boring?

From what I have been told...very, I push the sausage around in my syrup. Robert is playing tour guide to reporters all weekend.

You wish you were with him? Lexi questions.

Yes.

Well, it is no consolation, but why don’t you come down tomorrow night? We’ll hang out.

Okay. I sound a little more upbeat.

See you at about six for supper. Bye.

See you at six.

Chapter 3: B.B.Q

I awake. Face-down in my pillow, drenched in sweat, screaming. Takes a moment to recognize consciousness before I roll on my side, quaking. These night terrors are worsening with no cure in sight.

Like a bomb squad technician, I again search for the precise trigger. The need to defuse and move on builds in my chest. Yet, with the passage of each night, I question one thing. How do I never get these with Robert?

I deflect. Perhaps this place is the trigger tonight. This room is where I lost my mind several weeks ago. Tonight’s episode is nothing more than a residual from the nightmare of my life. The hope is that Lexi and Dan will not hear. I lay stock still, barely breathing. Long moments pass before I’m convinced I’m safe. Pull yourself together; no one is coming to check. As I calm down, I lay, willing sleep to come. Of course, by this point, sleep is no longer an option.

My phone sits on the nightstand. The brilliant blue light stings my eyes as I illuminate the room. My fingers slide over the glass, searching for mindlessness to lull me back into oblivion. A message grasps my attention. A video image of Robert zings into the screen with a tap of the icon.

Hi, sweetheart! I’m waiting for some interviews to finish up. Thought I would send you a video. I’m sure you and Lexi are out, so this is better than nothing.

He pauses, smiling.

Don’t take this too seriously. I'm foolish tonight. Sometimes when I talk to you on the video. You seem like you’re lonely. Even together, I sometimes catch it in your eyes. Like you’re a world away.

He pauses, looking at the screen.

All this is not your fault, but I worry about you. More than I should, perhaps, but what am I supposed to do? After time with your friends. You’re different. The brightness reappears. Helps alleviate my anxiety.

Sadness is exposed in his expression, making me question my decision not to tell him about the episodes. Of course, Robert would sense something. He’s more attuned than you give him credit for. With all the stress surrounding his career, he doesn’t need your troubles too.

I’m sure you are just off-balance. The picture begins. Can’t be easy when the speed of your life goes from 600 to 0 in the blink of an eye. Forget I said anything.

His free hand swings out past the screen. Eyes focus over the screen as the noise of chatter comes from the area.

Well, that’s my group. Facetime me tomorrow. I want to hear all about your day. Remember, I love you. I’ll talk to you then. The image freezes with the symbols to erase or save, hovering over Robert’s midsection. For some unexplained reason, I clip save.

For the rest of the remaining hours to sleep, my mind wanders through the doubts and fears plaguing me. The apprehension blossoms like weeds after the rain. The old internal stereo begins the all too familiar self-defeating songs. I attempt to replace them with the hope I find in Robert, but the fear is stronger tonight. I slip into a deep melancholy like a comfy pair of shoes.

The morning slogs by. I labor to keep my moroseness from Lexi and Dan. With a few phone calls, this party might become an intervention. Hours before the guests arrive. Dan is outside with the smoker, cooking the Ribs and Brisket. He’s been out there since the crack of dawn. With a mere thirty minutes to go, Lexi and I are busy finishing the preparations.

How’s the job hunt? She places some cut veggies on a tray.

Good. I’m scheduled for a couple of interviews this week.

Excellent. A little more enthusiastically than needed, Lex.

If my parents get their way. My career is set. Mom thinks the time has come for me to take on my hieratical responsibility.

Lexi stops chopping the lettuce, turning to glare at me. Her hands shift to her hips. The knife is at an awkward angle in my direction.

You have got to be kidding. Your father promised it wasn’t on the table before you’re forty.

Yeah, well, apparently, my mother believes all of this is a sign. She thinks it's time for me to be home.

Is the deal the same? Name only. Michael runs the farm.

I shake my head, trying to rid my mind of my mother’s awful negotiations.

Mom thinks the families should unite. Somehow, she’s got it in her head if I take my place on the farm. Michael and I’ll....

I gaze down, fearful of what I might find in my friend’s mind. The knife clatters in the sink.

Oh, come on. How are you supposed to create your own life if they choose for you?

I don’t know.

"Did you