He returned to the papers strewn across his desk, a new marketing campaign for a magazine I never read. With a sigh, I trekked back to my desk, my plan to get my life back on track cycling through my head. I couldn’t afford to go backward. I had worked so hard to get where I was, and I deserved to at least knock on that glass ceiling, if not smash it.
Iwouldn’tgo back.
It wasn’t an option.
Chapter
Four
BLAIRE
My psychologist’s office always seemed like it was trying too hard to be comfortable, and instead achieved the exact opposite.
The beige tones of the décor zapped any energy I had before stepping foot inside. Even the simple setup of a couch and chair felt as if we were two friends catching up over coffee instead of a therapist and patient.
As if anything could make me forget why I was here.
The minute I arrived, I wanted to leave. Nothing against Kathy. She was a lovely woman who spoke like she truly wanted to help me. But I also paid her.
She crossed her ankles, sitting in the chair across from me. “I was surprised to hear from you, Blaire. Our next appointment wasn’t scheduled for two weeks from now. It’s not like you to need a session sooner.”
Correction: It wasn’t like me to admit I needed to come sooner.
My anxiety was my Achilles heel, and even though it infiltrated every aspect of my life, I hated to acknowledge its existence. It was a weakness I couldn’t rectify.
“My sleep is getting worse. A lot worse. I’m up for a promotion I really don’t want to lose, and if I don’t fix this…problem soon, I’m going to get passed over.” Not wanting to meet her scrutiny, I picked at my cuticle.
“You’re still having the dreams then.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you keeping your dream journal?”
“Yes.”Even though it’s filled with stuff I don’t understand.
Kathy looked down at the small notepad on her lap. “And you tried the sleeping pills your psychiatrist offered?”
“Yes. I still had the dream. If anything, I think they made me more tired.” The stupid beige couch was horribly uncomfortable, and I couldn’t find a position that didn’t make me feel like ripping my skin off.
“Hmm…” She tapped her pen on the notepad. I watched, hypnotized. “Do you think it has anything to do with your parents’ murder? Maybe it’s you finally trying to process what happened.”
I stared at her. “What could dreams of me killing people have to do with my parents being killed during a break in?”
Shrugging, Kathy stopped tapping her pen. “I’m trying to imagine how your brain would see things. You experienced a trauma as a young child, and have struggled to retain memories since then. A loss of control, or the feeling of such, can filter into your life in the most peculiar ways. You had no control then in a situation of violence, and you have no control now, in a dream about a situation of violence. There’s a parallel there, if you want to explore it.”
What Kathy said made sense, no doubt about it, but it made sense forsomeone else. Her explanation didn’t sit right with me, and there was no ring of truth when I let it simmer in my brain.
Her smile encouraged me to agree, and I really didn’t feel like diving into all the reasons I thought she was wrong, so I nodded. “I guess that could be one explanation.”
“I think our best bet in getting the dreams to stop is exploring some of the gaps in your memory. Maybe if we can work at getting some of the less important memories back, you’ll have a bigger sense of control, and the dreams will stop.” Kathy jotted something down on the notepad, probably something about how she miraculously fixed all my problems with one wild guess.
“Maybe.”Hopefully.
“We’ve been working on the largest memory loss for some time now, the one right after university. Let’s try and develop some strategies we can work on together, to see if we can’t bring back some of those memories.”
“Great idea.”I hope. That chunk of time might as well have been gone for good. During university, it was suggested I see a therapist. Something unraveled in me during our sessions, and I just…disassociated. In my head, I separated the periods of time as B.B. and A.B. Before the blackout and after the blackout.
“Let’s nail down a timeline first. What’s the last thing you remember before the blackout?” Kathy asked, pen ready to jot down all my trauma in her tidy handwriting, lining up my misery in neat little rows.
