How could I spill my guts to someone I barely knew? Would I just be another face among the many patients she sat with every week? Would my story make her judge my upbringing? Judgeme?
It took Charlie coming to my first appointment as moral support for me to give it a shot. Meeting Mrs. Hartman was surprisingly easy. She smiled politely and gave me a lot of background about herself before our real sessions started. I know it was to make me comfortable, and it worked. After hearing her own story of being lost to the foster care system, I didn’t feel so alone. Our history is different, but our experiences were so alike that I finally feltseen.
Now, I have therapy every Thursday between my classes. It’s been hard to revisit all of my trauma, considering it’s so fresh, but Mrs. Hartman has been a wonder to work with. She doesn’t pry when I’m reluctant, but still offers a helping hand with exercises to break down the walls I built to protect myself.
She’s my saving grace.
“I don’t think so…” I shrug. “I feel like I can remember everything. It’s hard not to when it only stopped months ago.”
She nods, scribbling onto her notepad. “Sometimes, our brains can try to repress things if it’s too difficult for us to manage. It’s called dissociative amnesia, or motivated forgetting. Are you able to go back further? Maybe a time in your childhood that seems murky.”
My face twists displeasingly as I try to remember beyond my thirteenth birthday. I draw a blank, mostly remembering only bits and pieces of events, unable to make out anything specific. It’s like trying to wade through water—the memories are there, but I can’t see them.
Mrs. Hartman tilts her chin down, staring over the rim of her glasses at me. “It’s okay if you can’t remember. I’m bringing it up because I had a speculation. Some cases can improve with further support. If you would like, I have a colleague who specializes in psychotherapy.”
I shift in the leather, causing it to make a terrible crinkling sound as if it’s portraying my inner turmoil.
My therapist smiles kindly. “It’s just food for thought. If you decide to continue, I’ll give you her information. Let’s move on to the next point. How are your night terrors?”
I release the breath I was holding, my shoulders sinking down as we enter treaded territory. “Still there.” I laugh uncomfortably.
She scribbles some more on her notepad. “Is it the same memory?”
What she’s referring to is the night Dad tried to cut my face. A phantom pain travels down my neck as my mind circles back to that night, and I lift a hand to my chin to scratch at thescar.
“Yeah…”
Sometimes things are different, like the electricity is on in the trailer, or my Dad is holding a knife rather than a shard of broken glass. These variations in my memories are a way my mind tries to make sense of the senseless, adding or altering details as a coping mechanism. They each vary on their own terms, but the fear and pain remain the same, forever haunting me.
“What was it this time?” Mrs. Hartman asks quietly.
I play with my fingers, staring down at my new jeans. They’re light-washed bell-bottoms that Charlie convinced me to buy while we went shopping the other day. They’re cute, but they won’t save me from the invasive questions being thrown my way.
“A knife…again.” I sigh, chuckling under my breath. “How silly is that?”
Mrs. Hartman turns her head, giving me a stern expression. “We talked about this, Rose. Nothing in your head issillyorgrasping for attention. What you feel is valid. Your dreams are manifestingfear, and you have every right to express that in any way.”
I nod as her timer chimes. She grabs her phone off the end table before pressing the button to silence it. “That’s it for today, but I have some homework for you.”
I groan, bury my face in my hands as my therapist sucks her teeth at me.
“Homework isgood,” Mrs. Hartman stresses with a smirk. “It helps keep our emotions in check and our heads clear.”
“Tell that to my voice instructor,” I mutter.
“For tonight, I want you to limit your screen time before bed. No bright lights, and the meditation worked last time, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she hums as she uncrosses her legs and rises. “Mediate for thirty minutes before bed. You want a clear conscience before going to sleep. Can you do that, Rose?”
I follow behind her as she opens the office door. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“I’ll see you next Thursday,” she smiles before sending me off.
As I leave the office, I pull on my thick lavender coat, thankful for the job Charlie and I have at a local bar near campus. It’s nice having my own money now to spend how I see fit, and working really makes me feelnormal.
This whole new life makes me feel utterly mundane, and it’s the biggest blessing. My classes are going amazingly, I’m working at a job I don’t hate, and I’mfree.
