Page 92 of Keeping the Score

“Yeah. I’ve gone for therapy. I still go, sometimes.”

I nod. I told him that I went for therapy after the divorce. It’s not something to be ashamed or embarrassed about. Sometimes we all need help with our health—mental or physical. “That’s good.”

“I was developing some unhealthy coping mechanisms. Mainly my superstitions. They were starting to rule my life.”

“Oh. That sounds like a problem.”

“Yeah. Sometimes superstitions help us, but if they start interfering in our ability to function, that’s not good. My therapist pointed out that if you think your successes are lucky because of the things you do, or don’t do, it negates all your skill and hard work.”

I consider that. “That’s interesting.”

He nods. “And you can’t rely on luck to be successful.”

“Absolutely.”

“Also…” He drops his gaze. “When it gets compulsive, it’s usually because you’re trying to avoid something. In my case, it was anxiety. I had a lot of thought distortions. Obviously. About what would happen if I didn’t drive the exact same route to the game every time, or if I didn’t park in the same spot every game.” He looks up at me, his expression guarded. “My shrink actually put me on antidepressants to help with it.”

I make a face. “I know. I saw them in your bathroom. I wasn’t snooping!” I hold up a hand.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “You can snoop all you want in my place.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say. “Medications for mental health are just as necessary as antibiotics or painkillers for physical health.”

“Yeah.” His expression slides into relief. “Exactly. Anyway. Therapy helped me understand the impact my parents’ way of life had on me. Why I need to feel in control.”

“Because things were out of control when you were a kid.”

“Right.” He pauses. “Tell me about your family. You’ve mentioned they live in Illinois.”

“That’s right. Springfield. That’s where I grew up. There’s not much to tell.” I smile. “My parents are very nice and normal—they’re both teachers, although my dad’s a principal now—and my life was pretty average. I guess I was lucky.”

“Yeah.”

“My mom and I text all the time. She sends me cute dog videos because she knows I love dogs.”

“You had a dog growing up?”

“Yes! We always had a dog. There were Barkley and Homer, and they still have Daisy. I’ll show you a picture!” I pull out my phone and swipe through the photo gallery to find a recent pic of Daisy.

Leaning closer as I swipe, Ford says, “Are those all pictures of Tilly?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I stop scrolling and give him a toothy smile. “I like taking pictures of her.”

He grins.

I find a picture of Daisy and show him the camera.

“Oh, wow. She’s beautiful.”

“She’s an Australian Shepherd.”

“Look at those eyes.”

Daisy’s eyes are a pale blue. “I love them.” I put away my phone. “We also had a few cats over the years. Rabbits. Guinea pigs. Mom drew the line at hamsters. They were too much like mice. I was always rescuing strays and injured animals. Once, a racoon.”

His eyebrows shoot up.

“And a feral pig.” I pout. “That didn’t go well.”

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