Page 116 of Let the Game Begin (Kiss Me Like You Love Me #1)

“Neil, part of my job is outlining the challenges that may arise following the kind of trauma you experienced at a very delicate age.” He resumed speaking like I hadn’t just obliterated one of the decorative objects on his fancy desk.

Then, he leaned toward me, resting his elbows on the wooden surface of said desk.

“In your case, I diagnosed you with OCD at age eleven and IED at the age of fourteen,” he said as though he were a medical robot designed to talk and talk and talk some more…

I recalled the day I had been diagnosed with intermittent explosive disorder, or IED.

It happened after I had a violent episode at school.

I’d punched a boy after a minor argument, and I’d completely lost control.

During my adolescence, that kind of episode got more and more frequent as well as more extreme.

Dr. Lively instructed me to partake in cognitive behavior therapy and to take various medications.

As time passed, I learned to recognize the warning signs of an episode: the tremor in my hands, the sudden-onset heart palpitations, the feeling of pressure inside my head. But although I was aware of these problems, I continued to deny them and eventually refused to go back to therapy.

“Where were you when you received these puzzles?” He looked up at me, and I pushed the memories away to refocus on our conversation.

“You’ve known me for years.” I was so tired…

my legs crumpled involuntarily, forcing me to take a seat in one of the chairs next to the desk.

My brain felt like it had been overloaded with information, my psyche nothing more than a blocked and damaged electrical network capable of nothing but confusion.

“Yes, Neil, I’ve known you for years,” he said, taking a deep breath before he turned back to my drawing and frowned reflectively.

I had drawn a pentagram.

A perfect pentagram, a symbol of magic and occultism.

Spirit: top point.

Air: upper left.

Water: upper right.

Earth: lower left.

Fire: lower right.

The circle that enclosed it all represented the gods, the divine embrace of everything that existed inside the pentagram. It also represented the continuity of those forces, flowing forever, never stopping, involving all energies. Benign, for some people. Evil for others.

Fortunately, Dr. Lively didn’t ask me any questions about it.

“When you were a teenager, I diagnosed you with Dissociative Identity Disorder.” He closed the notebook and took off his glasses, setting them down on the book’s dark cover.

“You told me about yourself, about the Boy, and about the conversations that took place between you…” He turned his gaze on me again and a sudden, powerful headache had me clutching my forehead as his words fluttered around aimlessly in my brain.

“As you well know, the primary characteristic of that disorder is the presence of two or more personalities which manifest not just explicitly but via a discontinuity with one’s sense of self.

” I had heard this speech over and over again, but I had excised it from my brain in order to live the version of normal life that I created for myself.

Dr. Lively paused, his expression probing.

Maybe he was trying to make sure that I was listening to him?

Then, he went on, “People with this disorder—people like you—can feel depersonalized. They observe themselves as if from outside, doing atypical things and relating to their loved ones as if they were strangers or not real people at all. Sometimes, they may be convinced that their body is different, like that of a child or they may hear internal conversations between different states of personality. Sometimes, when a patient is not aware of this kind of condition or does not accept that they are affected by it, the voices of the other identities can address them or comment on their behavior.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine because that was exactly what had been happening to me on a regular basis. And when it happened, it was so intense that it made me…afraid.

“The disorder can also involve insomnia, panic attacks, impulsive behavior, and psycho-sexual dysfunction.” He looked at me and I clenched my hands into fists, trying to breathe.

“Delayed ejaculation, in your case, which is primarily situational. In one of our last sessions, you told me how that manifests in some of your sexual relationships, especially when you seek out women who remind you of Kim and therefore allow your mind to be convinced to relive your trauma. Is that still the case?” He interwove his fingers, looking sympathetically at me as he waited for my response.

Yes, goddamnit, yes, that was still the fucking case.

It was no coincidence that intercourse lasted so long for me and that my thrusts became increasingly energetic as I embarked on a violent, anxious race to orgasm.

For most men, climax was all about losing control and letting go.

For me, however, it meant going to war with myself because my mind had been conditioned to avoid fully enjoying a woman.

“What does all this have to do with the riddles?” I said, trying to cut to the chase because this conversation had become a Rubik’s cube I couldn’t solve.

“DID can also include dissociative amnesia. Subjects find themselves in places with no memory of how they got there, they find unfamiliar objects or…” he paused, which only increased my agitation.

I was jiggling my leg, clenching my hand into a fist over and over like I could prevent my life from bouncing away from me like an unruly tennis ball.

“They may find notes or other writing that they don’t recognize as their own and cannot explain. They might do things and not remember…”

A chilling silence descended inside those four white walls and not because I was buying his theory but because I had begun to seriously wonder if he wasn’t the one showing signs of a mental imbalance instead of me.

“I have never had amnesia. What the fuck are you talking about?” I said vehemently, leaping up as the chair I’d been sitting in suddenly felt like nothing so much as an expanse of sharpened blades.

Dr. Lively gave me an almost pitying look before getting gracefully to his feet and putting his hands in his pants pockets.

“The son of a bitch called me using an anonymized number. I heard his voice through a modifier. He threatened me and caused the accident that almost killed my brother. Do you have any idea the gravity of what you are suggesting right now?” My voice kept rising.

It seemed inconceivable that this man who I once thought knew me better than anyone else in the world, this man who had watched my mind develop since childhood, could insinuate that I was that kind of psychopath.

“When you were a child, you used a burner phone to fake calls from Kim. You claimed that she was the one who called you and that you had spoken with her. But Kim was in a psychiatric facility at the time, isolated from the outside world and sedated practically into a vegetative state for her own protection. Yet you continued to insist that she was calling you, and when I found out you were lying, you explained yourself by telling me that it was the Boy. That he wanted to play and it was all his idea. Do you remember that, Neil?”

He came around to my side of the desk and I stepped back, disturbed by what he had just told me.

No, I didn’t remember that at all.

Dr. Lively regarded me sadly, his shoulders slumped, lips folded into a bitter line.

Perhaps he was lying to me. Maybe he just wanted me to see him again so he was trying to convince me of the seriousness of my issues so I’d agree to restart therapy. He was a psychiatrist, after all, so he knew how my mind worked.

I stepped back further, increasing the distance between us until my back collided with the door handle.

“I am sorry, Neil. The human mind is a vast cosmos and the most fragile among us get lost inside it very easily,” he said, giving me an anguished look as I opened the door and left his office with all speed.

I met Chloe in the waiting room and signaled that it was time to leave. She jumped up to walk alongside me, hurrying to keep up with my longer strides.

“What’s going on?” she said softly, sounding both worried and out of breath. Instinctively, I put my arm around her shoulders so I wouldn’t scare her. I gave her my most certain, most arrogant smile as I led her to the car.

“Nothing. Dr. Lively says I’m in tip-top shape,” I said tonelessly, opening the car door for her. “Do you want to get some of the good ice cream before we go home?” I suggested, full of false joviality.

My mind was a complex, even confusing cosmos, but I was going to force myself to find my way through it. To prove to Dr. Lively that he was wrong.