Subtle. Steady.
Pulling.
And that unsettles me more than the anger does.
Because anger makes sense.
Violence makes sense.
This?
This feels like something I don’t have control over. And if I’m honest, that scares the shit out of me.
Maybe I am unraveling.
Maybe the part of me that’s supposed to know right from wrong is getting quieter.
Or maybe I’m just desperate to feel something that isn’t rage.
Either way, I don’t trust it. And I don’t trust myself. Maybe I am broken.
The thought’s been circling for days.
So, I decided to do something about it.
That’s what brings me here… standing in a quiet office building I’ve never been in before, staring at a brass plaque that reads: Dr. Iris Pembrooke, Clinical Psychologist.
The receptionist’s chair is empty. The room smells faintly of bergamot and books.
My first instinct is to turn around and walk out.
You don’t belong here.You’re fine. You can handle this yourself.
I take a step back toward the door. Shit, this is harder than it should be.
“Can I help you, dear?” a voice calls from across the room. It’s warm but sharp, wrapped in a British accent that seems to cut through the noise in my head with the precision of a sharp knife.
I turn.
She’s older… sixties maybe, dressed in a navy cardigan and wearing glasses she doesn’t seem to need based on their low position on her nose. There’s a calmness in her face, but it’s her tone that disarms me as she indicates a door to an inner office and says, “Come on in.” The steadiness in her feels… safe.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I have to pretend. I don’t want to. I enter the office, and she closes the door.
She tilts her head slightly. “Let’s start with why you’re here.”
I pause, caught off guard by how direct she is. “I’m not sure,” I admit.
She gestures toward a chair, then takes a seat across from me. “Well…not being sure is usually where all the good work starts. What’s your name?” she asks in a soft voice.
“Nathan,” I reply with shaken breath. I sit down.
“What are your current challenges?” she asks.
The question hangs in the air. Heavy.
“I can’t sleep. I keep having these dreams… vivid ones. And during the day, I can’t shut my mind off. I feel lost… Angry… sometimes.” The words aren’t pouring out of me, but at least they’re making it past my lips.
She nods. “Do you know what’s making you feel this way?”
