Page 22 of However You Want Me

Present day

The woman who sits across from me in my office reminds me of something from school.

I can’t put my finger on who it was, exactly. For a long time, every name I learned there was burned into my brain. That’s what happens when you’re not allowed to get to know anyone else. Those pieces of information are precious and forbidden, so I held them close to my chest.

I remember very clearly how I felt about the things we weren’t allowed to have, like food and privacy and friendships. An opinion. A voice. Whenever I learned something about another student, I hoarded it. Unlike food, those facts couldn’t go bad.

Kelly. My patient’s name is Kelly. As far as I know, there was no Kelly at the school. I memorized every name after we got out. When the files were released, we saw everything unfold.

It’s not her name that reminds me. I think it’s the color of her hair—a dark, natural brunette. The way it’s parted not quite down the center and the softness of her curls.

She looks just like her. I know the girl’s face from the black and white photos better than the memories from that school. She’s one of the ones who killed herself.

I take a deep breath, my notebook shifting on my lap and I steady myself. Now is not the time to be sifting through old memories of that place. Now is the time to focus on my patient.

To focus on Kelly.

We’re forty minutes into the session, and she is curled into an overstuffed chair across the office from me. Her posture is defensive and hurt.

In my experience, there are two ways people can go when they look like that. Kelly might be on the edge of a breakthrough, or she might be on the edge of getting up and walking out.

I would understand if she did. I’ve done my fair share of walking out of appointments when it seemed like the therapist I was working with would never understand.

Now I know that it’s impossible for people who weren’t in that situation at the school with us to understand, and I don’t blame them.

Kelly sniffles. Tears run down her face, but she clears her throat, her expression determined.

“Take your time,” I reassure her and she heaves in a breath, her fingers running through her hair and then resting on her forehead.

I’m glad for all the work I put into my office at times like this. I wanted it to look safe and welcoming. I wanted it tobesafe and welcoming, of course. Some therapists think the environment isn’t the most important thing when it comes to working with patients, but I don’t know where they got that idea. Kelly’s shoulders relaxed the first time she stepped into my office. She’s never said what the furniture and the soft lighting—light from the window during the day—and the throw blanket on the arm of the overstuffed chair reminds her of. She might not even know on a conscious level.

But I’m glad that the space around her is comfortable, because she’s clearly experiencing some uncomfortable feelings.

“I’m here to listen,” I remind her. “I’m interested to know how you’re feeling and what you’re thinking about right now.”

“Ugh,” she says. “I’m frustrated. I’m so frustrated, and I don’t know what?—”

Kelly breaks off and whips another tissue from the box on the side table. She blows her nose, then crumples the tissue into a tiny ball in her fist.

I wait, one leg crossed over the other, keeping my body relaxed. It enrages me that people can hurt other people the way Kelly has been hurt and the way I’ve been hurt. I don’t let myself get angry when I’m in sessions. I don’t let it show. I keep it in a little tin box, locked away with a tiny key deep down inside of me until the door is closed and the patient is gone.

Kelly looks toward the window, breathing deeply. Her cheeks reddened, and when she looks back at me, that betrayal is reflected in her eyes.

“It just feels like it keeps coming back,” she presses, the frustration lingering in her voice.

My throat gets tight… I know that feeling.

“I feel like,” Kelly begins, her voice thick with truth and emotion. “No matter how far away I get, no matter how much time passes, it’s still there.” She points at her chest. “Like it’s in my body, waiting for the moment I feel good, or I feel like I’m past it, or—” Kelly drops her hand to her lap, the tissue still clenched in her fist. “The second I let my guard down, it’s waiting to pounce on me again. Almost like it’s playing with me. Almost likeI’mplaying with me, because these are my—this is how I feel about what he did. I keep thinking I’m over it. But then something will happen and I’m right back in that house. All I want is to erase it somehow, and…I don’t know how to do that.”

“Where in your body do you feel that?” I ask her and she taps on her chest three times. “Right here,” she admits with her eyes glassy, “and sometimes my throat gets tight.”

I nod. “There’s a book I can recommend to you. You’re not wrong. The body holds trauma, and you don't have resolution or justice. It’s hard on the body when there was never an ending that makes you feel safe.”

She lets out a heavy sigh. Her eyes drop to her hands in her lap, her lip quivering. Kelly grits her teeth and the dimple in her chin disappears.

I sit with what she’s said for a few moments.

I don’t want to rush to respond to her. I want her to know that I’ve considered her words before I start talking.

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