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“I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this works.” I curl into myself, let my shoulders drop, release some of the stiffness in my back.

“Think of me as your sounding board. I’m here to help and guide you, so you can understand your emotions, create better behaviors, and relate to your thoughts differently.”

The faint squeak of leather comes through the connection, and I imagine him getting more comfortable in his chair.

“Okay. And if I do all that, then what?” I can’t picture myself in any other way than what I am.

“Then you can live your life the way it was meant to. Live your life to your full potential. Not as a result of circumstances or whatever happened in the past.”

I snort at his words. The sound is rude even to my ears. “Yeah, I can’t see this happening anytime soon.”

“And yet you called. And yet you’re here talking to me. And yet, the first thing you said was ‘yeah.’” He calls me on my bullshit response, but his tone is kind, not accusatory.

“What?” My feeble response is a weak attempt at scrambling for some extra time to think about what he said.

“You said you can’t seethis—this different version of you—happening anytime soon. But the first thing you said was‘yeah.’And that tells me that yes, you see that life for yourself, and more than seeing it, you want it.”

“I don’t think that’s how a sounding board works.” I shift in my bed.

“I’m also here to call you on your BS, when I see it.”

Crap on a cracker! It’s like he can read my thoughts. “Get out of my brain!” The words spill out before I can stop them. He rewards my impromptu honesty with a low chuckle.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

I suck in a deep breath and release with a loud sigh. “I guess it makes sense. In theory, at least.”

“Just in theory?”

I hear steps outside my door and lower my voice. “I can understand it on a rational level. But I haven’t internalized it yet.”

“Ah … yes. Assimilating a new point of view can take time.”

“But it’s more than just a new point of view, isn’t it?”

“It is. It’s a whole alternative way of thinking. And changing the way we view ourselves is far more difficult than changing the way we view others.”

That gives me pause. I have to run what he said through my mind. It resonates with me. “True. Yes. I can see that. But, why? Why is it easier to change the way we see others than the way we see ourselves?”

“Because we believe the lies others tell us about ourselves. And even worse, we believe the lies we tell ourselves too. We believe these made-up stories and proceed to make them real.”

This is also true. How many times was I called a slut growing up? Even before I ever kissed a boy. They shoved the word at me on a daily basis. And look at me now? Isn’t that what I am when I pick random guys to have sex with? I shake my head as if I could dispel the intruding thoughts. Get back to the call, Becca! “But how do we know they are lies?”

“You’re not asking the right question.”

“I don’t understand.” I get what he means about believing lies we tell ourselves. How often have I said I was okay and played the part of the happy and carefree girl? Too often. So often I sometimes fear I have lost my identity.

“The right question is not what are the lies.”

“No?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then, what is the right question?” My heart thunders in anticipation. Half of me believes he holds the key that will free me from my cell. The other half is too afraid to believe and is terrified of what will happen if I dare to step out.

“The right question is, what is the truth?”

“What’s the truth?” I repeat, letting the words wash over me like rain. One drop at a time.