Page 11 of Feeling the Heat: Part Two
“Do any of those resonate with you?” Dr. Mike prompts.
I groan. “You know they do.”
A warm guffaw escapes the giant alpha at my sass, and he shrugs. “I’ve been known to be right sometimes.”
I shake my head again, chuckling. “You’re right all the damn time. It drives me crazy.”
He grins. “I bet it does. But the trick is, if I didn’t think you had it in you to handle it, I wouldn’t say it. But you do. You’re here because it’s clear you want to change. You want to do the work. So tell me what you’re thinking.”
A small, shaky sigh escapes me as I struggle to form words, but Dr. Mike is patient.
Therapy is a minefield where I’m forcing myself not to step carefully around the emotional bombshells I’ve practiced avoiding my entire life. It’s forcing myself to tread somewhere I know will hurt and praying that my therapist is skilled enough to show me how to recover from the damage.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” I murmur, throat going tight. Oh great, this is going to be another crying session. Love that for me.
“And why do you think your pain will be a burden?”
“Because… it's tiring being with someone who is never at their best.”
“Have your partners expressed that to you?”
My stomach clenches as I think about Ambrose and everything he did for me when we were together. Massaging my back and hands without me once needing to ask. Taking over chores I was meant to do when he knew I was in pain, which was half the time we were together. Jackson, too. Not that he was mypartner, but he’s the one who bugged me until I went to PT, and found the gummies that are one of the few things that help take the edge off when I’m having a really bad pain day.
“No.” I swallow hard. “Never.”
Dr. Mike nods. “What about your family?”
Stop complaining. There’s nothing wrong with you except your attitude.
“Does telling me it’s all in my head count?” I ask, trying to play it off as a joke, but instead it comes out laced with pain at the memory. I clear my throat. “They didn’t pay enough attention to me to have time to be resentful. Other than resenting that I existed at all, maybe. I’m not sure.”
There’s a flash of undisguised horror in Dr. Mike’s eyes that he reserves for when we discuss my bizarre upbringing. He sucks in a deep inhale before speaking. “If they resented you, that was their fault, not yours. You were a child. You needed medical attention, and it was their responsibility to get it for you. Do you agree with me on that?”
“Yes, but…”
When I don’t continue, Dr. Mike’s kind eyes bore into me. “But what?”
I swallow again, tears spilling down my cheeks. “But maybe if I’d been better at hiding it, they would’ve wanted me.”
I’m wrungout and puffy-eyed by the time I step out of my therapist's office, squinting against the mid-afternoon sun as I make my way to my car. When I’m in the relative privacy of my car, I let out a loud curse, releasing the dregs of the emotional turmoil from today’s session. Dr. Mike says it’s important to letmyself feel my emotions, and I know he’s right, but there’s a reason why I haven’t done it in the past.
It fucking sucks.
What my new job lacks in salary, it at least makes up for with flexibility. I work from home, and as long as I get things done by the agreed-upon deadlines, I can work whenever I want. On afternoons I have therapy, I don’t have to worry about going back home and sitting in front of a computer after bawling my eyes out.
Still, I take my phone off of do not disturb and check my notifications, just in case someone needs me.
I almost drop my phone when I see there’s a missed call from Ambrose.
Oh god, what do I do? We haven’t spoken since the night I moved out. The night he told me he was done fighting me. The one that features heavily in my rotation of nightmares, along with the day I bonded Camille.
I’m not ready to talk to him. It’s too soon. I’m going to screw it up.
The urge to run back into Dr. Mike’s office and beg him to counsel me on this is overwhelming. If only Ambrose had called before my appointment, we could’ve made a plan to handle this together.
I turn on the car and tilt the vents so the air conditioning will blast me in the face and help cool me off before I spiral into panic. I add together large numbers in my head, a tactic Dr. Mike gave me for combatting swells of anxiety. I’m awful at it, but the focus on the task helps a little.
If I delay calling Ambrose back, my dread will only get worse. I pick my phone back up with trembling fingers and tap the screen to return his call.
