“No.”
“Okay,” She settled behind her desk. “Yesterday we spoke about why you’re here?—”
“Because the doctors demanded it.”
She shifted. “Okay. To get a bit more detailed, the fact of the matter is that certain parts of your life have been restricted until you complete your therapy.” The tone of her voice was authoritative but not as cold as yesterday. “Therefore,” she continued, “sessions with either myself, or someone else, needs to be completed to give you those restricted items back.”
“My freedom.”
“Your driver’s license and concealed carry license. And, by all intents and purposes, your pride.”
My jaw twitched.
“Are we in agreement here?”
“Yes.” The answer came out in more of a growl than I intended.
“Great,” she said, pleased with this response. “Now, I want to start by asking, what is it exactly thatyouwould like to get out of this therapy?”
“My driver’s license and concealed carry license.”
“Is that it?”
I flopped open my right palm. Did she not hear the last ten seconds of our conversation?
“Youronlygoal out of hours and hours of therapy is to regain your licenses?”
“Which is my freedom.”
“Really? To you, freedom equalsonlyyour drivers and gun licen?—”
“Concealed—”
“Stop,Phoenix.” She gave me a sharp look. “Do you think that freedom is going to be the same as it was before your injury? You get your licenses back, and all of a sudden your life is going to go right back to the way it was?”
I looked away, because honestly, that hit home. Hard.
“How about this?” Rose pushed away from her desk and crossed the room to a large dry erase board on the wall. I straightened, watching her walk, the long, confident strides, the scent of something flowery following a moment later. Her weird, wide-legged pants flowed against her legs like silk, brief moments of outlining long, toned legs, and a popping ass.
Focus, Phoenix.
After removing the top from a red marker, she scribbled#1at the top of the board.
“Let’s set three goals.”
She turned to me, a marker in her hand and a gleam in her eye, sending me into some naughty teacher insta-fantasy. It was humiliating how she could do this to me. It’s got to be related to my injuries. Because Phoenix responded to no woman like this.
“Yesterday I told you that the type of therapy I do centers around CBT, or Cognitive Behavior Therapy. Are you familiar?”
“I’m familiar with CBD.”
“Right.” Apparently not her first time to hear that joke. “This isn’t that. CBTfocuses on changing problematic patterns of thinking. It centers on the idea that over the years our brains develop automatic think patterns that are either productive or destructive. These thought patterns affect our feelings and behaviors, thereby affecting our entire life. What we do, how we do it, our choices, how we feel about ourselves, who we hang out with, etcetera. CBT focuses on breaking down the destructive thought patterns and re-training our brains how to react to situations in a more positive, productive way. What I think you’ll like about this, Phoenix, is that we step outside of ourselves—so to speak—and look at our thoughts as a separate entity that we cancontrol.Just as wecontrolsituations, we cancontrolour thoughts. You are powerful enough to do it. You just have… to do it.”
The passion in her voice was palpable.
She turned back to the board. “So, we start with three goals. Only three. Every time I see you, our torturous discussions,” she winked over her shoulder, “will be geared toward these three goals, only. Everything we do, talk about,everythingwill focus on these three goals. That way, when youdraaagyourself in here, you’ll know what to expect and what the conversations will be focused around.”
I straightened. Goals. Three. Clear expectations set. I could do that.
