“Tell me one,” she says. “Just one. We don’t have to go through all of them.”
So I tell her about the motel one. The pill bottles and the gun. My mom talking like she’s giving me a life hack.
She listens, eyes soft but steady. No horror, no pity, just… presence.
“How did you feel when you woke up?” she asks.
“Like someone had scraped me out,” I say. “Like… empty and buzzing at the same time. I wanted to wake Miguel up and also disappear into the wall.”
“And what did you do?”
“Hid in the bathroom,” I sigh. “Good ol’ cold water and breathing. Then back to bed. I didn’t tell him.”
“Why not?”
She’ll get it out of me one way or another. “Because things have been good,” I say. “Because he works his ass off, and I didn’t want to be like, ‘Hi, I know you just spent all day climbingaround inside walls, but here’s my recurring starring role in Lifetime’s Trauma, The Series.’”
Her mouth quirks. “You’re good at minimizing your needs,” she says. “That’s one of the coping mechanisms that kept you alive as a kid. It’s not serving you as well now.”
“I know,” I deadpan. “Intellectually. But… if I tell him everything every time my brain decides to show a rerun, he’s going to burn out. Or resent me. Or start bracing every time I walk into a room. I don’t want our life to be… this all the time.”
She nods. “Of course you don’t,” tapping her pen to the notepad in her lap. “No one wants their trauma to be their only topic of conversation or the core of their relationship. The goal here is not ‘tell him everything, always.’ The goal is ‘don’t lie about the severity when you’re nearing the cliff.’”
I swallow. “Do you think I’m nearing the cliff?”
Pausing for a moment, letting the room grow quiet. “I think you’re edging closer to the guardrail,” she says. “Nightmares are a sign your system is under strain. The exam stress, the lecture, the conversations with your father, the scout, the camp possibility… that’s a lot of input. Your safety plan is not an accusation. It’s a resource. Let’s look at it.”
We do.
“Okay,” I say. “So we’re at like… three out of five.”
“How does that feel to acknowledge?” she asks.
“Like I want to set the paper on fire,” I say. “And also… like maybe I’m not imagining this. That something is ramping up, and I’m not just being dramatic.”
“You’re not being dramatic,” she says firmly. “Your system is telling us it’s under strain. The good news is you are catching it earlier than before. You’re here. You’re talking about it. That’s a huge difference from previous spirals you’ve described.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Back then, I’d just… not show up. Anywhere. Until someone dragged me out.”
“Exactly,” she says. “So, let’s talk about what we are adjusting. This week let’s focus on small, concrete things.”
We negotiate on the most important things. Things that will keep me sane. Limiting late-night studying, no laptop in bed after midnight. Texting Miguel something about the nightmares, maybe not the full script, but enough that he knows the volume. And adding one extra check-in with her next week, even if it’s a short email.
“Feels like a lot,” I grumble, taking in all the notes I’ve written.
“It is,” she says. “Because you’re important. You require maintenance.”
“You make me sound like a ‘98 Honda,” I say. “Those bitches live forever.”
“Even Hondas deserve oil changes,” she says.
I don’t tellMiguel everything that night.
But I tell him more than nothing.
We’re in bed, lights off, his hand drawing lazy circles on my back. My body is bone-tired, but my brain is still pacing.
“I’ve been having nightmares,” I say into his chest.
