The pull of my skin was making my stomach churn. I released a shaky breath, sweat pooling under my arms.
This is temporary. This is for Javi. This is for me. This is for justice. This. Is Temporary.
“Emory?”
I jumped, jolting backwards from the face in my field of vision.
I blinked several times, looking around the room, the smell of the essential oils grounding me.
“Forgive me,” I muttered on instinct, as I let my eyes swing back to Sarah’s face. She had moved to sit beside me on the couch while I was spaced out. I shuddered and dropped my hand from where I was still absently tracing the scar.
She gave me a soft smile. “No need for apologies. Does that happen often?”
I cleared my throat still trying to gain my bearings on reality. My stomach was clenched with fear, braced against the phantom pain like I was back in our bedroom, getting stitched up for the mistake I’d made at dinner.
That wasn’t the first time I’d been belted. I’d lost count after the number of times they belted me during RLS. I rememberedbeing grateful for how gentle Theo had been, how at least the lashes on my back were only going to bruise, how he took care of me afterwards, gave me ice so I wouldn’t have to live with the reminder that the pain would provide and never hit my backside or thighs like they did in RLS, how he wanted me to let go of any guilt right away.
I had hoped that he would continue to use that punishment sparingly. Although, realistically, I knew it was inevitably going to happen again. I wasn’t perfect. Any mistake that broke one of the ten commandments meant that I needed a belting. Unfortunately, almost any mistake could be considered dishonoring my husband, and therefore result in a belting.
When I first learned of their use of corporal punishment during Reformed Life Studies, I struggled to comprehend how normal they made it sound. How even children received beltings starting on their first birthday, the number of lashes permitted up to the age of the child. But me, an adult, I could receive the maximum prescribed in Deuteronomy 25:3—thirty-nine. Thirty-fucking-nine lashes.
I sent a silent thank you to God for sparing me from ever receiving that many lashes.
I shuddered again, trying to shake off the phantom stinging across my back and arm.
“Um, yeah. Sometimes I space out,” I mumbled, shifting back on the couch.
“Where do you go when you space out?”
“The past.”
Sarah nodded, standing to return to her usual seat across from me. Sarah let the silence settle between us and when it became unbearable, I looked up to glare at her.
“So? It’s not normal, is it?”
She gave me a look. I closed my eyes with frustration.
“I know. I know. Normal is relative. I just…I feel like something is wrong with me.”
She sighed, crossing her legs. “Look, you know how I feel about the DSM and using clinical language in our sessions, but…to answer your question…No, it’s not ‘normal’ to have flashbacks and panic attacks to the degree and frequency you’re describing unless you have PTSD.”
“PTSD?” I deadpanned. “Great. Yeah, well, I certainly lived through enough trauma, so…”
“Yes, I can imagine that you have.”
I sighed, my eyes snagging on the letter opener on her desk. I let myself daydream for a moment about cutting myself open with it while the silenced stretched on.
“What do you usually do to cope? When you have these flashbacks or nightmares, what do you do to calm yourself down?”
I startled out of the fantasy, staring at her like she was a mind reader.
“I-I dunno.”
Sarah pursed her lips.
“Are you wanting these flashbacks to stop?”
“Well, obviously. But…what the hell am I supposed to do to stop them?”
