Page 18

T he waves crashed softly against the shore, the rhythmic sound almost lulling me into a sense of calm as I sat in the suite, the luxury of the beach resort surrounding me. But peace eluded me. Out of the blue, Damier invited me on a trip to Mexico, and I agreed. However, he had been distant since we arrived earlier in the day, and it was more so than usual.

I watched him from the corner of my eye, pacing back and forth across the room. His phone buzzed in his hand every few minutes, but he barely glanced at it. His expression was tight, his posture stiff, and something about the way he held himself made it clear he wasn’t fully present.

Something seemed to be pressing down on him, and I, the therapist, could see it. But the man I was with wasn’t the kind of person to easily admit when he was struggling. I’d been with him for weeks now, and while he’d shared moments of vulnerability, this was different. This felt like a tipping point.

I knew why he was here—he was here for a meeting, but he hadn’t told me what it was about. I wasn’t going to press him for details. That’s not how this worked. But I could tell something was weighing on him, and it wasn’t just business.

I took a deep breath, trying to shake the feeling of helplessness.

“Damier,” I called softly from where I was sitting. He paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder at me. “We never got to our last session. What do you say we talk now?”

His eyes darkened, and he hesitated, the weight of his thoughts still clearly heavy on him. “Dream, I don’t know if now’s the best time.” His voice was strained, as though he was holding back from saying too much.

“Please,” I gently said, standing and crossing the room toward him. “I know you’re carrying something. I can see it. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

He exhaled sharply, dropping his phone onto the bed before walking over to the window, staring out at the ocean as though the answer to his problems might be out there. After a few moments of silence, he turned to face me, his expression unreadable.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice low and filled with resignation. “Let’s do it.”

I walked over to the couch and sat down, my iPad and Apple Pencil in hand. He settled into the chair opposite me, leaning back and crossing his arms. I could see the tension in his posture, the stiffness in his shoulders, but there was also a hint of relief in his eyes as if he knew this was something he needed to do but hadn’t been ready until now.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Damier started, his gaze fixed on the floor. “About everything... what I’ve done, who I’ve become. And I don’t know if I can keep this up.”

I nodded, encouraging him to continue. I’d heard bits and pieces of his struggles before, but I could tell this was different. There was something raw in his words, something he hadn’t fully allowed himself to express.

“I’ve done some things... things that haunt me,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve taken lives, I’ve hurt people, and every fuckin’ day, it eats away at me. But it’s like I can’t escape it. I can’t stop. I’m afraid of losing myself, Dream. I’m afraid I’m going down the same path as Damian.”

I felt a pang in my chest at the mention of his brother. I knew about the accident, the traumatic event that had left Damian scarred and mentally unstable, but I hadn’t fully understood the depth of how it had affected Damier. I could see the fear in his eyes as he spoke of losing control.

“I’ve had nightmares,” he continued, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “Waking up in cold sweats, seeing their faces. People I’ve killed. People I’ve betrayed. I even have nightmares about my brother’s accident. It’s like they’re still with me, chasing me. I can’t sleep, and when I do, it’s the same thing. I see them. I hear them.”

I didn’t speak; I just let him continue. My heart ached for him as I scribbled notes, trying to process everything he was saying. This wasn’t just a man who was hardened by his experiences—this was someone deeply wounded, someone trapped in the very darkness he had created.

“I’m scared, Dream,” he confessed, his eyes meeting mine for the first time. “I’m scared I’m losing my mind. What if I end up like Damian? What if I’m too far gone to turn back? I’m so far removed from God that I don’t even pray. He probably can’t even help me.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I could see it—the fear, the vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to witness. This wasn’t the man who commanded a criminal empire; this was a broken black man struggling to make sense of everything he had done.

“You’re not losing your mind, Damier,” I softly said, trying to reassure him. “You’re carrying a heavy burden, but that doesn’t mean you’re losing control. You can still fix all of this and build a good rapport with God. You are not counted out.”

He shook his head, his expression darkening. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending I’m good. I know I’m not. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending. I’m tired, Dream. So fuckin’ tired, mentally and physically. But I was taught to keep going, even if it hurts.”

I looked down at my notes, then up at him. “I’m here for you, Damier. And I think it’s time you stop pretending. You’ve been carrying this weight for so long, and it’s okay to let someone in. It’s okay to admit that you need help.”

He let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping as the tension seemed to ease just a little .

“I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to ask for help. I am the help.”

“You don’t have to do it all at once,” I replied. “Start small. You’re already doing it by talking to me.”

He nodded, though I could still see the wariness in his eyes. But something in him had shifted. He was finally allowing himself to admit the depth of his pain, and that was a significant step.

“I’m afraid I’m not the person you think I am,” he quietly said, his gaze dropping once more. “I’ve done terrible shit, Dream. And I’m scared that, deep down, I’m just like Damian—lost, broken, and beyond saving. My mother or father never showed weakness. Never seen a therapist. If she knew I was doing this, she would probably disown me.”

I took a deep breath as I leaned forward. “You’re not like Damian, Damier, and we can keep these sessions away from your mother. You’re dealing with your shit, but that doesn’t make you a lost cause. It makes you human.”

He looked up at me, his expression uncertain but hopeful like he was trying to believe my words.

“I don’t know how to get past it,” he admitted. “I’ve tried, but it keeps coming back. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe. And the guilt—it’s always there.”

For a moment, we just sat in silence, the weight of his confession hanging between us. I could see the relief in his eyes but also the uncertainty. It was like he was afraid of what would happen next, afraid of what it meant to finally face the truth of who he was and what he had done.

A knock at the door broke the silence, and Damier stiffened, the moment of vulnerability quickly vanishing.

His mother’s voice called out from the hallway, “Damier, it’s time. We need to go.”

He looked at me, his face hardening again, the mask slipping back into place. “We’ll finish this later,” he said, his voice a little more composed. He stood up, brushing himself off as he walked toward the door.

I watched him go, the emotions swirling inside me. He had shared so much, more than I ever expected. But as he closed the door behind him, I was left alone with my thoughts, my notes, and the weight of everything he had just exposed.

As I sat back down, I reviewed what I had written. His depression was undeniable. The guilt, the nightmares, the lack of sleep—all of it pointed to a man carrying the world on his shoulders, and it was weighing him down. But something else lingered in my mind. The way he talked about losing control, about becoming like Damian—it made me wonder if there was more to his struggles. Maybe Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) was also in play. He had moments when he exuded complexity, a sense of entitlement, and a need for validation. But that, too, seemed to be tied to his underlying fear of being unworthy, of being lost.

I couldn’t diagnose him fully at that moment, but the signs were clear—he was a man in pain, a man who needed help more than he realized.

I looked out at the ocean, the sunset casting a soft glow over the water, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had fallen for someone far more complicated than I ever imagined. A drug lord, a murderer, yes —but also a man haunted by his past, afraid of his own mind. He could have PTSD, too.

I wasn’t sure what would happen next, but I was sure of one thing: I couldn’t walk away now, not after what he had revealed.

Not after everything he had shown me.