She gives me the look. The one that says, “Try again, but with less evasion.”
I smirk. “Okay, if you must know, I spent the morning imagining the rest of my life.”
There, is that less evasive for you, Doc?
Dr. Chen’s eyebrows flicker, but she doesn’t interrupt. “And?”
“It…looks good. I can see friends, and a job I think I’ll really enjoy, and…um…running. But mostly I see Eden.”
For the first time since I started therapy, Dr. Chen looks genuinely surprised. “That’s a significant shift, Sloane. What changed?”
It’s a fair observation and question. Although I’ve spoken of Eden often in my sessions, and I’ve always held on to the hope I might one day see her again, I never letmyselfbelieveI could be with her again, not in the way we were together.
I think about last night. The way Eden’s hands held me by the hips as we crossed that finish line. The way she hugged me. The way our text exchange made my insides turn to jelly, even though it consisted of silly banter and nothing more.
“I don’t know,” I say, but that’s not the truth. So I add, “I think…I think I’ve given myself permission to want her without feeling guilty. That’s also true for my future, too.”
Dr. Chen nods like that’s the answer she was hoping for. “It’s normal to feel hesitant about moving forward after trauma. But it’s also normal and even healthy to want things again. It’s what recovery looks like.”
I look down at my lap, fidgeting with the seam of my shorts. It hits me, hard, how starved I’ve been for wanting things to be better instead of just less awful.
“What happens if it blows up in my face?” I ask, eyes on the edge of my laptop.
She folds her hands and leans toward the camera. “Then you pick up the pieces. That’s all any of us can do. However, if that happens, you’ll already have the tools you need to get through it. And the people.”
It’s a concern I needed to share, but I’m not afraid the same way I was a few years ago. Recovery 1, Anxiety 0.
We talk for fifty minutes about the next steps in my life plan. Dr. Chen smiles brightly when I tell her about my business idea. She never once makes me feel like I won’t cope, and that’s why she is a great therapist. I word vomit my business plan. She recaps our session on boundaries, which is helpful. My boundaries are super important for my prolonged stability. Once that subject has been exhausted, we talk about Eden and how she always finds a way to reappear when I need her most. I feel raw, but not in a devastated way for once.
At the end of the session, I promise to keep her posted, and when the Zoom window closes I don’t linger. Instead, I open up the group chat and start typing.
The crew is already nineteen messages deep on team slogans they want printed on t-shirts. Most of them are unprintable. Scrolling back through the conversation, I get to the part which explains the need for team shirts in the first place. Apparently, we’re going to run every LGBTQ+ charity race within a hundred-mile radius this summer.
I’m so excited we’re doing this! I jump into the conversation. “Okay, but if we’re doing matching shirts, I only approve if there are dad jokes on the back.”
Within seconds, the replies pour in, one right after the other.
Bella: JOGGING MY MEMORY
Pia: FAST BUT CURIOUS
Becca: GAY FOR THE FINISH LINE
Eden: RUNAWAY BRIDES
I do not, for even a second, miss the Eden typing bubble after I send my contribution. “How about ‘CAN’T EVEN RUN STRAIGHT’ but in Comic Sans?”
I cackle when Eden tells me I’m a monster. I’ve thoroughly offended the artist Eden with my comment. She passionately hates Comic Sans.
I reply with a cheeky and somewhat flirty, “Only for you, Sawyer.”
She gives me a smirk emoji and then tells me I’m on night before race pasta duty again.
I can’t wait.
The week rockets forward. My days fill up with training runs, in-depth job research, and morning masturbation.Now that my libido is back, she’s making her presence known…a lot.
I make a spreadsheet of gyms and physical therapy centers within a 20-mile radius. I take a chance and cold-email one of the local therapy places about mentoring, and to my shock, the owner writes back with an invitation for coffee.
