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Then he steps away from me to the door. I flinch when it slams because the realization of what I’ve just done slams into me.
Theability to hurt those we love can be astounding. We throw callous hurtful words with the intention of inflicting the most pain in moments of anger. Situation or circumstances color our outlook and perception of ourselves, making us the worst version of ourselves.
For over a year now, I’ve been the absolute worst version of myself. A version I never knew existed.
I have let myself be consumed by anger, fear, guilt, and self-pity. I have ran and pushed away everyone who could’ve helped me.
The last couple of months of therapy and being with Jax and my brother, I thought was healing me. I thought I was letting it go.
In reality, I was using it as another excuse not to truly deal with my pain. I’m probably being a little hard on myself right now. Who wouldn’t shut down and regress after coming face-to-face with their attacker and feeling totally helpless?
But, once again, instead of dealing with my problems, I ran. This time, not so much physically as emotionally.
As I sit in Dr. Lansing’s office, I replay the argument between Jax and I over and over in my head. Just like I’ve done all night long. What I was asking of him wasn’t unreasonable, but his response wasn’t either.
He was responding to my inability to connect with him intimately over the last couple of weeks. He is trying to give me space to work through my issues, and I can’t blame him for not wanting to make love to me when he knows all I’m thinking about is when I was raped.
I was raped. I was raped.
I’d said it before. Thought it before. But it always felt like I was admitting some kind of sin.
Dr. Lansing is sitting across from me, a notepad in her hand like most sessions. She’s waiting on Jax. I know she is because I haven’t had the guts to tell her he probably won’t be coming today. He may never come again.
I feel the recognizable burn in my nose that says tears are coming.
“What’s going on, Zoey?” Dr. Lansing asks with a patient voice. It’s the kind of voice that never feels condescending or judgmental. It always suggests compassion and caring. It should be easy to talk to her, but my broken, jaded mind can’t help but wonder if she’d be so compassionate and caring if she weren’t being well paid for these sessions.
I shake my head, not quite ready to start sharing yet. I’m still trying to accept that I pushed Jax away last night. Epically.
“Is Jax running late this morning?” she asks, confirming my earlier thought that she is waiting on him. He’d been joining two sessions a week with me. He started about two weeks after I came home when Dr. Lansing suggested he be here too.
He came willing and readily for me.
“No I don’t think he’ll be here today, Doctor,” I reply.
This was the first office session I’d had since I ran into him. Dr. Lansing was told about the confrontation – or lack thereof – and began coming to the apartment for a couple of sessions when time allowed.
“Oh,” she says with a raised brow. “He’s always here when he should be. I hope everything is okay.”
I give a dry chuckle. It wasn’t okay, and I wasn’t sure I could fix it. I am beginning to think I was right all those months ago. I am utterly and irreparably broken.
“I don’t think anything is okay,” I reply honestly. “I may have finally succeeded in pushing Jax away for good.”
I curl into a ball on the black leather sofa I’m sitting on, and stare at a bookshelf on her gray walls. I notice a few pictures set in front of the books. There are a couple of really cute kids with the same red hair and bright blue eyes of the lovely doctor. “Are those your children?” I ask softly.
Her smile widens a bit. “No. They’re my brother’s children. He and his wife died a couple of years ago in a hit and run. I’ve been raising them ever since.”
“You love them,” I observe.
“I do,” she acquiesces. “Zoey, why would you think Jax isn’t coming today?”
“Because I lashed out in epic proportion last night. I said things I shouldn’t have said, and, even though I wanted to take them back, I didn’t”
“What was the fight over?”
Another humorless chuckle crosses my lips. “Sex.”
“Sex? What about sex?”
