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The Problem with Players

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Brittainy C. Cherry

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“I’m fine. I’m fine. Those words kept playing repeatedly through my mind. They were trying to push out the other thoughts that seemed to grow louder and louder with every passing second. Stay down. What’s the point of getting up? I hated days like today. Days when the battle inside me raged fiercer than I’d had the strength to fight. Depression was an uninvited guest to my soul, and it had thrown a shroud over my will, leaving me paralyzed in the sanctuary of my bed. The digital clock on my nightstand kept changing, a relentless reminder of the world moving forward without me. I wanted to get up and shake off the despondency sticking to me, but my body refused to obey my wants. I was tired.”

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“I didn’t have time to fall apart. It was Saturday, and the team was having a late afternoon practice. I still had so much work to do over at my office. People were counting on me. The guys would show up to the field and expect me to be their head coach. Still, the thought of facing another day, of going through the motions in a world that felt so vibrantly alive while I felt so irrationally tired inside, felt overwhelming.”

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“All right, I’ll play. What are some of the symptoms of OSS?” “Oh, there are plenty. Especially when a parental figure is missing from the equation.” “Enlighten me.” She swirled the bat back and forth between the palms of her hands. “Well, for starters, you are extremely reliable and find yourself responsible for your siblings. Almost as if they are your own kids, seeing how you helped raise them.” I narrowed my brows. “Go on.” “You are overly protective over your family and go out of your way to make sure everyone’s okay. You’re a workaholic. You put your own wants and needs on the back burner in order to make sure everyone else is good. You let your dreams sit on the sidelines if it makes sure others are happier.” My mouth twitched a little. She was hitting a little too close to home. I took the bat from her and grabbed a ball from the bag. I tossed it up and swung, hitting the ball into the distance. “Go on,” I said. She took the bat from me and stepped onto the plate. “You suffer from a hyper-independence, which seems like a good thing, but it’s not.” She tossed a ball up and knocked it out. “It’s actually a trauma response because you feel like you can’t rely on others, seeing how it was always your job to be the reliable source.” “Too loud, Coach.” She handed the bat back to me. We switched positions. “You also worry about messing up and letting people down. Which is why you are so achievement-oriented,” she explained. I hit the next ball. She whistled low. “Nice hit.” “Thanks.” I flicked my thumb against the bridge of my nose. “So with this OSS, what’s the treatment plan?” She shrugged. “Don’t know. Still trying to figure that out myself. Because as someone suffering with OSS, I know that we hate all eyes on us, and we hate the thought of people worrying about us because it shows that we aren’t as strong as we should be, and we should always be strong.” She took the bat from me and performed another hit. “But I think it helps to struggle in numbers. Makes it a little easier to breathe.” “Are you suggesting we start an OSS club?”

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“Should she be worried about you right now?” I shook my head. “No. Right now, I’m good.” “Happy?” she asked. “Right now? Yes. But I don’t strive for happiness. It’s a temporary, fleeting thing.” “What do you strive for?” “Contentment,” I replied. “It’s a longer-term state of satisfaction. Happiness is fleeting. Contentment is stable and solid throughout life.” “I thought I was content in my last relationship.” “Oh.” I shook my head. “That’s different. One should never be content in love.” “Why’s that?” “I don’t know. I just feel as if love deserves a word, a feeling bigger than that.” “And what word is that?” “Don’t know yet. But once I figure it out, I’ll be the first to inform you.”

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“There was a long period of my life when I couldn’t get out of bed, either.” I sat up and leaned against the headboard. “You too?” “Me too.” He brushed his thumb against his nose. “After Mickey passed away, I couldn’t get out of bed, no matter how hard I tried. Then even when I felt as if I should’ve been able to get up, I still couldn’t. It was as if my mind was cementing my body into the bed. No matter how many good things happened, it was just hard to…exist.” “Yes,” I agreed. “Just like that. How did you get through it?” “I found my beams.” “Your beams? What does that mean?” “My therapist told me that when I was going through my darkest moments. She told me to look for my sunbeams. She said that people who are sad often try to dive headfirst into feeling better. They go to extremes and try hard to climb out of the darkness to feel the sun’s full burst of joy again. They try so hard to get back to a feeling from their past when they felt the happiness.” “Yeah. I do try to chase the high of past happy moments.” “Many people do. Then they crash and burn because it was too much, too soon, too hard. That leaves a feeling of even more depression because you’re hard on yourself, and you feel as if you’ve failed, when really, you just went too hard, too soon. And it’s not about chasing the past. It’s about allowing a new future through finding your sunbeams.” “Break it down.”

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