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My fingers find the hem of my skirt again. “He’s got his own shit to deal with.”
“Most people do.” She writes something down. “That doesn’t mean they can’t handle yours too.”
“Yeah, well.” I force a smile that feels like broken glass. “Maybe I can’t handle theirs.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“What’s the difference?” I can’t help either way.
“Let’s circle back to having control.” Dr. Patel glances at her notepad. “You mentioned feeling safe when someone else makes food choices for you. Yet you pushed Brandon away when he tried to help.”
“It’s different.” I shift in the chair, uncomfortable with how close she’s getting to truths I’d rather not face. “Brandon was, is… He made everything about fixing me.”
“Is that what you think he was doing?”
The memory of his hands steadying mine as I flipped pancakes appears in my mind. The way he’d stand behind me, not touching, just present. How he’d casually slide the appetizers my way.
“He pushed too hard.” But even as I say it, I know it’s not true. He never pushed harder than I could handle until that night in the bathroom. And even then, he stopped the moment I said red.
“Did he?” Dr. Patel’s pen pauses. “Or did you pull away because he was getting too close?”
“Does it matter? He’s better off without?—”
“Without you?”
All I know is that every time I close my eyes, I see Mom’s body on the floor, blood pooling around her head like some twisted halo. And somewhere between the police questions and funeral arrangements, I realized I couldn’t drag Brandon down with me.
“Without having to deal with this.” I gesture vaguely at myself. “Yes. With me.”
“That sounds like a decision you made for him.”
I… I did make that decision. Just like I made the decision to keep my mother’s secret all those years ago. Just like I make the decision every day about what to eat, what to purge, and how to maintain control.
“Sometimes,” Dr. Patel says into my silence, “the mess is where the healing starts. We don’t have to be perfect.”
I think of Brandon’s face when I pushed him away that last time. The hurt. The resignation. The acceptance. He knew I was running, and he let me go anyway.
“What if—” My voice breaks, raw with emotion. “I don’t need?—”
“Help? Or him?”
“Either.”
“Yet you’re here.”
“That’s—” I brace my hands on the couch. “This is professional. Clinical. There are boundaries.”
“And boundaries make you feel safe?”
“Yes.” The word comes out too fast, too sharp.
“Our time is up for today.” She closes her notepad with a soft snap. “I’d like you to think about something before our next session.”
I grab my purse, already half out of my seat. “What?”
“Control.” She adjusts her glasses. “Try to reflect on the moments you’re using control to feel safe. When you decide for others instead of asking them.”
“Can I go now?” I hate these sessions. But I have no choice, or she will inform dear Daddy, and I will be sent on another unwanted hiatus. “I have dinner plans.”