“What you’re experiencing is called PTSD. Something traumatic happened. Two people you love got hurt. Are you taking any medication?”
I shake my head. “Do I need to?”
“I prefer to work around it if I can. Sometimes talking to a therapist helps, and no medication is needed.”
“To be honest, I prefer no medication.”
“How are Levi and Sol doing?”
“Better. It’s just that . . . this dream I keep having . . . I try to save them, but I fail. Every single time. I feel so helpless, and I don’t know what to do. Maybe it’s a symbol?”
“What do you mean?” Dr. Taylor asks.
I shrug. “That I’m not meant to be some kind of savior. That I’m not good enough for them. I don’t know.” I gnaw on my bottom lip. I sound so lost; she’s probably wondering what the hell’s wrong with me.
She puts on her glasses and then slides the pen and notebook at her elbow closer before scribbling something.
“Um, what’s that? What did you just write?”
“Just some keywords. I like to take notes to jog my memory. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I guess not.”
She nods. “What makes you think you’re not good enough, Grace?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just a feeling. It’s like one of those things you know but can’t explain.”
She writes something on her notepad, then lifts her head to meet my gaze. “How long have you felt like this?”
Good question. I can’t remember a time when I felt like I was whole or good enough.
“Grace?” she prompts, bringing my focus back to her.
“Honestly? For as long as I can remember.”
Dr. Taylor stares at me thoughtfully, then asks, “You were raised by a single mother, correct?”
I’m about to ask her how she knows, but I remember she has access to my file on her computer from the admin office.
“Yes.”
“What about your father? Do you have any contact with him?”
My body locks in place. My eyes bounce away from hers, and my cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Um, no.”
“How long has it been since you last talked to him?” she asks.
Shit. I didn’t expect this line of questioning when I walked into her office. I just wanted her to help me with my recurrent dreams. The thing is, I’ll never be comfortable talking about my conception.
“Can we go back to talking about my dreams?” I ask.
Her brows rise as if I caught her off guard before returning to her normal patient expression. “The only way I can help you is by finding out as much as I can about you, Grace.”
Inhaling deeply, I bring my gaze back to hers. Every instinct in me tells me to stand and leave, but I feel like I’ve been running all my life. It’s time to stop and fight. Besides, I came here because I need to unpack my dreams and my life. I need to be a better version of myself.
Clenching my hands into fists on my lap, I clear my throat. “My mother was raped when she was eighteen. Her parents wanted her to terminate the pregnancy. She refused, and they practically threw her out of their home. She moved to Portland and gave birth to me. She couldn’t make ends meet so she, um, had sex with men for money. So, yeah. That’s the short version of my story.”
Dr. Taylor blinks a couple of times before writing something on the notepad. When she looks up at me, if I thought she was going to shy away from what I just said, I’m proven wrong when she asks, “How does that make you feel? Knowing how you came into this world.”
“I have different feelings about it . . .” She gives me an encouraging nod. “I guess I’m grateful my mother decided to keep me. But . . . I hate that she had to go through that experience, you know? And I hate the man who did that to her. I mean, what kind of person attacks a defenseless girl and forces themselves on her?” My voice wobbles as I finish talking.
Tears burn my eyes, and I sniff, dropping my chin to my chest to avoid Dr. Taylor’s eyes.
From the corner of my eye, I see her hand appear, holding out a box of tissues in my direction. I take it, and mutter, “Thanks.”
We fall silent for several heartbeats, and I get the feeling she’s giving me time to get my shit together. Taking deep breaths, I feel the tears wane. And I realize I’m not as embarrassed as I was before.
“You okay, Grace?”
I look up and nod.
“How are you feeling after what you just told me?”
My chest doesn’t feel like it’s on fire, and the urge to flee the room is gone. “Better. Talking about, uh . . . is very hard for me. There are a total of four people who know about it.”
She smiles. “So, would you say this is progress?”
I smile back. “For sure.”
“Let’s circle back to the dreams. I want you to try something the next time you have a nightmare.”
“Okay.” I’m willing to try anything at this point. Sol’s rosary bracelet helps, but I need more. I need help sorting out these nightmares, and hopefully eliminating them for good.
“Write down what happens in the dream and how it makes you feel. Then rewrite that dream on another paper and change the ending from a negative outcome into positive one. Before you go to sleep, imagine the rewritten dream from beginning to end. It might take a couple of tries to get the desired result, so please be patient.”
“My mom’s fiancé suggested the same thing. Well, not rewriting the ending part,” I tell her.
A smile tugs at her lips. “Have you tried it?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I’ll try it next time.” I pause, and the ticking second hand of the clock on the wall draws my attention. Shit. My next class starts in five minutes, and I need about seven minutes to get there from here. I jump to my feet and grab my bag. “I have to go. My next class starts really soon.”
“Wait! I’m putting down your name for next Monday.”
“Oh, please do. See you next week, Dr. Taylor.”
Before she can answer, I snatch my coat and run out the door.
Earlier today, MJ texted to let me know she was meeting Ivan after school to talk. I hate seeing her so brokenhearted, so I’m hoping the talk goes well.
Once I get to the dorm and take a shower, I video chat with my mom and tell her about my first session with Dr. Taylor, and she updates me on the wedding preparations.
Afterward, I grab my laptop from my desk and the pizza I bought on the way home, and climb into bed. Then I settle down to catch up with what I missed over the past week.
The rest of the week goes by fast, and before I know it, the weekend is almost here. By the time I arrive in Portland on Saturday morning, it’s almost ten o’clock. After spending the past two weeks catching up with my coursework, coming home feels really good. I let myself into the apartment and drop my weekend bag on the floor. I’m just taking off my coat when Christopher appears from around the corner, a smile gracing his face when he sees me.
“Morning, kiddo. Good to see you.” He meets me halfway and pulls me into his arms.
“Hey, Chris.” I pull back and look up. There are dark circles around his eyes. “You look tired. Everything okay?”