Page 64 of Save Me

“Of course.”

He plants a gentle kiss on my forehead and I close my eyes as his lips linger. I wish I could melt into him with desire instead of exhaustion… I wish I was the same person I was a couple months ago.

He fusses over me like a mother hen, tucking me back into the blankets and shifting my pillows, before leaving to get me breakfast and a cup of tea. I think about what he said, about wanting to help me but not sure what he should do, the note of helplessness in his voice betraying his steady speech, and I realize he probably feels unsure and vulnerable too. I let myself close my eyes, listening to the rain, relaxing as the sound calms my nerves. I roll over, tucking myself further under the blankets, and just before I put my phone back on the table, I set the alarm so I’ll have time to get ready for therapy.

CHAPTER 28

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Ifidget withmy 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, butI 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, asnormalis 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 outwhyyou’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.

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