Living to Loving

Chapter 1

Heyy guys! It's ya girl Geekgirl531 again with yet another book bouncing in my head. This is my first attempt at romance-ever, so if it's a train wreck, be sure to comment and make fun of me! And if you like it-hey, why not hit the vote and follow button? And thank you so much for reading, it means a lot.

*Gemma POV*

People think PTSD is only for the soldiers who come back from war. Truth is, it can affect anyone. It affected me after the crash that killed Jade, my older sister. And I'm only fifteen. So what's stopping it from hurting you? I know, I know, it's a depressing concept to start off with. Truth is, I don't care. Because life isn't about happiness, it's about truth, and it's about time people learned it.

"Come on, Gemma!" My mother yelled down the hall at me.

I suppressed a growl and set my guitar on its designated stand. I yank my Psychiatric service dog, Bella's harness off of its hook next to my jacket and help her slip into it. I guide it over her little doggy legs and strap it under her belly like my mother taught me.

When I was diagnosed with PTSD, my mom met with a therapist. Like I planned on spilling my guts to a stranger. I refused to talk during sessions, because I was not about to spill personal junk to a shrink who would sit there with her fancy degree and pretend to care about my feelings. Eventually, my mom found out I was making no progress with the therapist, probably because she acted all stuffy and noble, and didn't care about me past the money my mother was feeding her.

So Mom took me back to the doctor and he gave us another therapist, and told my mother I needed to try out a support group.

Whoever told him that kids would be more likely to open up to a group of random kids, rather than one person who cares about them needs to be sent back to medical school.

But I do the support group for my parents, about the only reason I do anything these days. Besides music, it's the only motivation I have.

I take a somewhat nervous deep breath and slide into the front seat of our Subaru. To say our car is ratty is an understatement. We've needed a new car for a while, but my parents run our house on the slogan "If it ain't broke, don't fix it". Except I'm pretty sure our car is "broke". It reeks of my little brother's feet and my younger sister's stale McDonald's french fries. The backseat has holes in the cushions from all the years of wear and tear, and has countless scratches on the silverish exterior from my siblings doing erratic things around the car like bouncing a basketball or throwing a softball.

I can hear Micah, my ten year old brother and Crystal, my thirteen year old sister arguing from the backseat.

I stifle a shaky breath. My head pounds in my ears. Cars ramp up my anxiety, because of the accident. After the accident, and after I was diagnosed with PTSD, I was pretty much terrified of cars. Getting in them, seeing them. Jade died in a car wreck and I couldn't let that happen again to anyone.

Bella, my psychiatric service dog, presses her nose into my leg, her big brown eyes looking up at me. I realize I'm holding my breath and gripping the console so hard my knuckles are turning white. I force myself to release my grip on the console and let out a breath slowly.

"You good?" Mom asks, nudging me. She turns the key and the ignition starts, making me jump.

I nod, breathing in and out. Come on, Gemma. I scratch Bella profusely behind her ears as she licks my hand. This is our normal grounding technique to make sure I don't get lost in dissociation. Oh sorry, dissociation is this weird horrible feeling you get that makes it seem like you're detached from the world. Kind of like you're looking at the world through Saran Wrap, in a way. It's complicated. I've had problems with cars ever since the accident. At first, I couldn't even go near one without flashbacks and dissociation. I'm getting better at this.