Page 59

FORTY-NINE

Playing: She Used to Be Mine by Sara Bareilles

“Stacia?”

I blink a few times, my eye sight coming back into focus before I look around.

I’m in a room that I’ve become quite familiar with these past few weeks.

There’s a soft blue rug under my feet, and a sound machine in the corner that’s playing ocean waves on its lowest volume.

It smells a bit like rose oil with a hint of descenter.

I meet the eyes of my therapist. She’s wearing a patient smile, her hands resting in front of her.

Therapy is different from what I expected. I actually look forward to my appointments. Mrs. Abrams is so kind and validating, even when I’m being closed off or insecure.

The first few sessions were hard. I spent a lot of the allotted time spaced out, not wanting to recall the difficult moments where I had felt the most out of control.

She reminded me that we could talk about anything I wanted, or nothing at all.

She also reminded me that honesty would help her figure out the best possible treatment plan possible.

So I told the truth.

I spoke about my parents and everything I could ever recall them saying during my youth.

I recounted my entire relationship with Derek, all the way up until I finally called it quits and the harassment that started after.

I told her about my scent matches and how it’s been a journey to accept them, because I ultimately felt like I was not worthy of their affections.

My memory from a few moments ago returns. I had just finished recalling my hospitalization. I explained that I didn’t remember taking any drugs or even leaving the restaurant after dinner. Only the pain on my mates’ faces when I woke up in that hospital bed.

I swallow roughly. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Stacia. It’s a difficult memory, one that you obviously want to forget. I’m honored that you shared that with me, thank you.”

I give her a solemn nod.

“I noticed that you used your senses to come back to the present. Has that method been helpful to you?”

“Yes.” The husk in my voice causes me to cough. “It’s been helpful, yes. I’m working hard on grounding when I feel myself slipping. My mates bought all kinds of essential oils so I can use them to ground.”

She gives me a genuine smile. “And these, what you call, ‘smaller’ episodes… have they been happening while you’re with your pack or mainly during therapy?”

“Definitely therapy, but they might happen if I get too deep in my head no matter where I am or who I’m with. I could be in the middle of a conversation that I’m enjoying, but if a certain memory resurfaces…”

“Can you pinpoint any specific memories?”

I cringe. “Any memory with Derek, even the earlier ones because I look back and feel… naive . And a lot of childhood memories. The most painful one is probably—” I hear my father’s voice in my head, disappointed and angry all in one. “When I designated as an omega.”

“Why do you think that memory resurfaces so often?”

The hangnail beside my index finger suddenly looks really interesting as my heart rate speeds up, but I wiggle my toes against the carpet to find my center.

“I think that was the first time I really… understood that my parents weren’t typically strict like other parents.

They had this real hatred in their hearts…

and I had become the thing they hate. Before, I thought if I could just be better, they would show some kind of humanity towards me.

But it only got worse after that. It was the biggest red flag being waved in my face, and I still ignored it.

Still thought that maybe, one day, they would start being real parents. Loving ones…”

I trail off. Mrs. Abrams goes to write a few notes, and I ask what I’ve been curious about this entire session. “Do you know what I have? Or… do I have something serious? Is that why this happens to me? Why I dissociate?”

She gives me a thoughtful expression before putting her pen down. “It’s a bit early for a diagnosis.”

“But it’s not impossible?”

She shakes her head, her kind smile still present.

“Nothing’s impossible. Dissociation is a spectrum, and you do tend to dissociate often, but I’m not confident enough yet to say whether or not you have a disorder.

It’s a coping mechanism. This is how your body reacts under extreme stress.

From what you’ve told me, you’ve experienced this your entire life and you’ve been condemned by your parents for it for as long as you can remember, but that doesn’t tell me if you were born this way or if their constant criticism caused this mechanism to develop early on. ”

Her words hit me hard. “So… I may be this way because of external circumstances?”

I’d never thought of that before. I always assumed it was a part of me, an extension of my identity.

“Correct. It could be a form of PTSD from emotional abuse. Both from your parents and your most recent relationship. I’m almost positive that the abuse and harassment you suffered this past year has re-triggered this fight-or-flight response, which is making your dissociation seem much more difficult to handle.

Drug abuse can also trigger more episodes. ”

“It can?”

She nods. “Using drugs under distress is a form of escapism, much like dissociation is.”

“Do you think the drugs I took made me blackout before overdosing?

“I considered it, but I think there’s another possibility.

I think dinner that night with your parents was so stressful that you had what’s called a blackout episode.

It’s a form of dissociative amnesia. It explains why you don’t remember leaving the restaurant or taking the drugs.

While you weren’t in your body, your body did what it was used to, which was find a party and substances to disappear into. ”

My thoughts scramble. That’s a scary thing to consider, especially if I have to prevent it from happening again. “But… why this time? Why was this time so extreme that I blacked out instead of zoning out?”

Her expression is cautious as she thinks about how to word her next sentence.

“Your parents are an obvious trigger for you. I think they hold a lot of power when it comes to how you feel about yourself. From what you just told me, you’ve always hoped they would eventually become what you need them to be, parents who love and cherish you.

Every time there’s a moment where they show you who they really are, it shatters that illusion, and—bit by bit—the child inside of you that didn’t get the love she deserved feels more alone.

It’s hard to come to terms with that new reality, one where that hope is completely gone.

It started falling apart when you designated, and it’s been crumbling ever since.

I think the stress was too much, and you did the only thing that you could to feel safe.

And since it was an extreme situation, your dissociation became extreme to reflect that. ”

I slump my shoulders against the couch, feeling suddenly exhausted. “Do I need medication?”

She tilts her head in thought once more.

“Medication is an option, definitely, and that option is up to you . Whether you decide to start medication or to continue cognitive therapy, your dissociation seems very manageable considering your willingness to practice mindfulness. Not to mention the support system you have with your scent matches and best friend.”

I can’t hide the smile at her mentioning my mates and Rory. My new family. Family that I chose.

“You’re doing splendid work, Stacia. And remember, your dissociation isn’t the enemy, it’s just how you cope. Realizing what causes it is the first step to identifying the root so you can start to heal.”

I smile at the praise, reminding myself to feel the carpet under my feet and to smell the rose scent circling around us.

“Are you ready to dig further?”

I give her a confident nod. As long as I remember I have my soulmates behind me, I can do anything. Despite both the necessary and difficult work ahead, I have people in my corner, and I finally have myself in my corner too.

There’s nothing that can stop me.