Page 28

I fidget with my fingers as I sit on a comfortable gray couch, looking at the woman sitting in an armchair across from me. She sits casually in the chair, and the way she crosses her legs makes her flowy pants look more like a dress. She adjusts the bright blue glasses that perch on her nose, and I don’t know what the most unexpected thing about her is: her colorful outfit, nose ring, or bright red lipstick. I’m not sure what I expected a therapist to look like, but it’s not this. The room around me, while eclectic, is a lot more toned down than she is, and the neutral colors and soft lighting create a welcoming space.

My eyes pause on a painting of a boat, and for a moment I’m reminded of the one in the living room at Rhett’s boathouse. I want to look away, but I can’t, my mind trapped trying to force down the memories that threaten to resurface.

“What do you think of the painting?” Dr. Baumer—Angela, as she told me to call her—asks me quietly.

“From an artistic perspective, it’s lovely. The use of colors, the texture, the way the artist captured light and movement in the waves is all stunning,” I say, feeling as though I’m on autopilot before I add quietly, “but I don’t like it.”

“Would you feel more at ease if I took it down?” she asks, and I turn my head towards her. Something like genuine care and understanding radiates from her, and I shake my head, breaking the trance I was in staring at the artwork.

“No, no, that’s fine, I was just… thinking about things that’s all. It reminded me of something.”

“If you change your mind, let me know,” she says with a smile.

I nod, not sure what else to say. Sorry lady, I’m so traumatized I can’t look at anything nautical.

“Today’s session is going to look a little different to most of our sessions going forward. This is what we call an intake session. First, I’m going to go through some of our standard practice information, basically all the formal paperwork that will allow us to work together. After hearing all the policies, and if you choose to consent to working together, we’ll get started with the intake… I’ll be asking a lot of questions in order to gain a better understanding of why you’re here; what made you decide to start therapy, what changes you want to see in your own mental health, and what your goals are. Once I have a better understanding of who you are, what you’re going through, and what you want out of our sessions, I create a treatment plan, and every week when we speak, we’ll be able to work towards those goals you outline today. Does that sound fair to you?”

I nod again, trying to process everything she has said.

“What happens if I don’t want to be here? Like”—I take a breath—“what happens if I don’t want to answer the questions you ask me about myself?”

“Then you don’t have to answer them.” She leans back in her chair, resting the notebook and pen in her lap. “No one is forcing you to be here, Evi. No one. If you’re uncomfortable with a question and don’t want to answer it, you can pass and we can try another time. If you don’t want to continue therapy, you can cancel all future sessions. But all I ask from you is honest communication. Let me know what you’re feeling, let me know if showing up here is a struggle for you, and let me know what changes you see when we do work together. The more I know, the more I can help you. But, if at the end of the day, you’re not interested in being here, that’s fine too. I’m happy to refer you elsewhere or give you resources you can use at home by yourself.”

I’m surprised by how easygoing she is. A part of me always thought that psychologists would be, well, psychoanalyzing me from the start, and maybe she is, but she seems so genuine, so easy to talk to, that I can’t help but feel more comfortable here by the minute.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s start with the intake and we can just see how it goes.”

She smiles as she picks up her pen. “Let’s get started then.”

The first hour goes by quicker than I thought possible. Listening and agreeing to all the policies and filling out paperwork took some time, and then it was straight into talking about me as a person. I realized pretty quickly I feel lost, her questions about my childhood, my hobbies, and events in recent years making it very obvious that I don’t really know who I am anymore, and I haven’t found my direction in life since losing it earlier this year.

Angela pauses writing for a moment and looks at me again. “And how will you know that our sessions together are beneficial to your mental health?”

The question takes me by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“What will change in your life? What will look different… if our sessions impact you positively and you reach your goals?”

I shift in my seat. “I think I’d, umm—” I take a breath, steadying myself as I gather the courage to be upfront. “I do this thing now, when I’m anxious, or sad, or overwhelmed where I, I kind of scratch my finger or I um, want to cut my skin.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I know it sounds ridiculous,” I add quickly, “but it helps me breathe, like, steady myself in the moment. And I know it’s not healthy, I know it’s not normal, but I think that would probably stop if our sessions go well.” I look at her, waiting for a reaction, but she simply jots down a quick note on her pad of paper.

“I don’t think it sounds ridiculous. And to be honest, I’m hesitant defining something as normal or not, as normal is a very challenging concept to define,” she muses while writing another note. “Next time this happens I’d like you to get curious about it, try to figure out why you’re doing it, without placing any judgment on your actions. And then we can discuss how to modify or replace this behavior with something that works better for you. In the meantime, I’d like to quickly point out a harm reduction approach we can take that prioritizes your safety…”

She starts talking and I try to keep my face neutral as her words remind me of the conversation Ryan had with me, and the words Jax spoke to me, all of them caring and kind, with no judgment. I don’t want to tell her that though, not about how Jax helps me, and definitely not about the dynamic in his house. It would raise too many questions, too many suspicions, so my own healing journey is going to consist of partial truths. Afterall, I can’t exactly tell her who Jax is and what he does for a living.

“What else, Evi? What are you hoping to see change by the time we’re done working together?”

The answer comes to me without any hesitation at all.

“I’d like to stop having panic attacks. At least, that’s what I think they are.” I explain what they feel like and she nods sympathetically.

“What triggers them?”

I rub my fingers together, my forefinger tracing the scab on my thumb as my foot taps on the ground. “Nothing. Everything. There doesn’t seem to be just one thing I can pinpoint.” I take a shaky breath. “I was assaulted—raped—and um…” I feel the bile as it coats my throat and the familiar fear as it winds its way within me.

“I want to pause you right there, Evi, and remind you that you are safe. That we are here, in this room, and we do not have to discuss anything that is too triggering or too much for you to talk about right now. I’d like to do some grounding and containment exercises before we go any further with this conversation.”

I follow her lead, working on my breathing, focusing on her words, and allowing her exercises to help bring my heart rate back down.

“This is what happens,” I say, as a wave of humiliation washes over me. “It can be something as simple as saying it out loud, or looking at a painting—he had one in his living room,” I explain. “Or last night, I had a dream, but it was more of a flashback I guess, and when I woke up my boyfriend was hugging me in my sleep and I panicked. I just couldn’t differentiate the feeling of him touching me versus the guy who did… well, that to me.”

She nods while I keep talking, explaining how I want, and need, the flashbacks and panic attacks to stop. How I want to be able to put this all behind me and move forward with my life. How I want to be happy, how I should be happy.

She asks me more questions, questions that feel more like an assessment rather than conversation, and I answer them as honestly as I can. I tell her how I have support through my boyfriend and friends, how I have thoughts of not wanting to be here, but not wanting to die, and how I’m still experiencing a high level of stress and anxiety.

“It’s not uncommon to experience all these things after a traumatic event, especially after something as traumatic as you’re describing. During our next sessions we’ll work together to process through what happened to you and find ways that you can manage the symptoms you’re experiencing. I’m also going to prescribe you something for your panic attacks, since you’re having them so frequently.”

“I don’t want them,” I say quickly.

“Any particular reason?”

“I’m trying not to rely on anything to take the edge off.” I shift uncomfortably, not sure how much to disclose about my drug use in the past. “I’m sure it’s helpful, I’m sure it’s safe, but I just want to try this whole therapy thing first and if that doesn’t work then I’ll try it.”

“That’s totally fine, Evi. You’re in control here. My goal is to help you reach your goals, following whatever route you take to try to get there. If you don’t mind though I’m going to recommend some resources for you. There are some books and worksheets I think you might find helpful.”

The rest of the session flows smoothly, and by the time I leave I’m exhausted.

I step outside and walk down the large stone steps into the parking lot where Jax is waiting for me, leaning up against his car. He smiles at me as I approach him, giving me a kiss that consumes me before opening the car door.

I slide in, and a moment later he’s sitting behind the wheel beside me.

“So, how’d it go?” he asks, looking at me carefully.

“I like her, she’s nice,” I say with a smile. “Though, I’m not going to lie, I’m exhausted. It was a lot of information to take in and a lot of talking.”

“What do you want to do, love?”

“I could use a coffee if you know a place around here.”

He smiles at me as he starts the car.

*

The coffee shop Jax chooses is small, with only a few wooden tables scattered throughout, and decorated with bright paintings. We grab our coffees and sit down, and I can’t help but laugh at the normalcy of this.

“Something funny?” he asks with a smile of his own.

“I just never thought a crime lord would sit down at a café,” I whisper quietly, stifling my laughter. “It’s very… normal.”

He chuckles in response before whispering back to me, “What? Are crime lords not allowed caffeine?”

We laugh, and we talk, and I soak all of him in. The way his hand holds onto mine, his thumb stroking my skin softly, the way he looks at me, as though I’m the only thing that matters, and the way he leans in to kiss me, reaching across the table so our lips can meet, if only briefly. I’m not used to these public displays of affection, not used to someone being so gentle, so tender with me, and I’m relishing every moment of seeing Jax embrace his softer side with me. I love how there are two very distinct sides to him, one that is ruthless and one that is compassionate, and I love being privy to both.

I silence my phone as it dings, Sam’s name appearing on my screen.

“Are you avoiding her?” Jax asks me as he lifts his coffee to his mouth, taking a sip.

“No. Yes. Kind of,” I say sheepishly.

“Why?”

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can pretend that everything is fine in front of her… I think she’ll see straight through me.”

“And?”

“And I don’t want her to think of me any differently when she finds out what I’ve been through… how much I’ve been struggling,” I say, focusing on the warm coffee in my hands. “I’m scared that she’ll think I’m broken, or different, than I was. And I don’t really know how to navigate that.”

“All valid concerns,” he says slowly. “But I think you’re forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That she’s your friend… That she’s seen you go through a lot and is still here, trying to make sure you’re okay. I think you’re underestimating how much she cares about you.” He takes another sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t think there is anything that could sway her from being here for you.”

I mull over what he’s saying, and I have to agree that he’s right. By the time we finish our coffees I’ve sent Sam a message back, agreeing to swing by her apartment later this week.