Page 26 of Shattered Obsession

I stare at the neat row of tissue boxes on the side table, each corner aligned, waiting for someone like me to unravel in front of it. My hands twitch, unsure whether to fold, clasp, or hide. The smell of disinfectant mixes with the therapist’s faint perfume, a sterile sweetness that makes my stomach twist. Everything here is too clean, too ordered, as if chaos like mine doesn’t belong here.

I can feel the confession forming before it ever breaks the air. It isn’t just words; it’s teeth and claws and pieces of memory trying to tear their way out of me. Shame burns beneath my skin, a wildfire no one else can see.

Saying it makes it real.

Not saying it keeps me trapped.

There is no version that doesn’t hurt.

The words tumble out, jagged and raw, an emotional avalanche.

“I was raped.”

The moment I say those words, everything shatters. Hot, heavy tears flood my eyes, blurring my vision and suffocating me. I fold in on myself, my chest collapsing inward as sobs wrack my body, ugly, broken, and unstoppable.

The therapist does not interrupt; instead, she leans a fraction closer, her voice calm and unwavering. “You’re safe here, Thalia. You’re not alone. Take your time.”

Her voice becomes a rope I grip blindly. I match each inhale to her calm expression, forcing air past the sobs until my chest stutters instead of caves.

But the words keep cascading out, each one a stone added to a crumbling dam. “He–he held me down. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. And now I can’t stop seeing it, feeling it, like I’m still there.”

My mind drags me back into the dark like a rip current. The weight on my chest. The scrape of his belt buckle. My vision narrows to just his smile.

Stop thinking. Stop remembering.

But my body remembers without my consent. My wrists ache with phantom bruises. My lungs seize, desperate for air they cannot draw.

“You’re here,” the therapist says, grounding me, her voice slow and calm. “Not there.”

I nod, but inside, everything is still happening.

The therapist waits, allowing me to spill out my pain without judgment. I grapple for the tissues she slides toward me, though they do little against the flood of anguish spilling from my heart. My entire body shakes, hands trembling so violently that I can scarcely hold on.

I hate crying in front of strangers, yet something inside me loosens each time another tear falls. Maybe honesty is what breaking actually feels like.

“I don’t know how to live with it,” I gasp out, choking on the enormity of my words. “It’s like it’s still happening. Every time I close my eyes. Every time I’m alone. I’m so tired. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop it.”

The therapist’s voice cuts through my spiraling panic. “You’ve been carrying something unbearable on your own. But you don’t have to anymore. This is the first step.” Her words feel like a fragile lifeline, implausible yet perhaps true.

For the first time since that night, I feel the weight of it shift, a fraction of the burden lifting from my shoulders.

The tissues pile up in my lap, damp and crumpled, a testament to the storm brewing inside me. My throat feels raw, as if the words I’ve been holding back are clawing for release. My chest is a tight knot, constricted under the weight of unspoken fears, but the therapist doesn’t rush me. She remains patient, her expression calm and inviting, as if she understands that the silence we share is laden with meaning.

When I finally break the stillness, my voice emerges as a low, cracked whisper, barely recognizable even to myself. “It ruined me. Not just that night. Everything after. The world shrank after that night. Streets I once loved walking became maps of ambushes. Every light felt too bright, every shadow too deep. I started cataloging escape routes instead of memories—how far to the door, how fast I could run, where I could hide if someone raised their voice. It’s exhausting, living like prey in your own skin. I miss the version of myself who didn’t flinch at footsteps, the girl who believed monsters lived only in stories. It’s as if he didn’t merely take my body; he stole… me. And now I’m lost, wandering through my own life, searching for a way to reclaim what’s been taken.”

Her gentle nod offers me a thread of connection, an understanding that transcends words. For a heartbeat, I almost resent her sympathy. It feels too easy. Then I realize she’s offering me the thing I keep refusing: permission to not be fine.

“You’re still here, Thalia,” she reassures me. “The part of you that feels lost is not gone. It’s wounded, holding onto pain and memories that are far too heavy to bear alone right now, but we can navigate this path together.” The word ‘together’ lands heavily. I picture a rope bridge stretched over a canyon, frayed and uncertain, but at least someone’s on the other side, holding it steady.

I grip the tissue in my hand until it tears, a physical manifestation of my inner turmoil.

“I’m terrified I’ll never be able to be touched again. Not without being flung back into those memories.” The panic rises in my chest, constricting like a vice as I continue. “I’m with someone now. Xander. He’s incredible, everything I’ve ever dreamed of. He respects my boundaries and makes me feel safe. But every time he touches me—” My voice falters, caught on the edge of despair. “It’s like I’m transported back to that moment, and I just freeze. I panic. I feel guilt, like I’m punishing him for something he had no part in. It feels like I’m broken, and he’s suffering for it.”

Burning tears spill over, a humiliating reminder of my fragility.

“I just crave normalcy. I want to desire him without fear suffocating me. I want to experience intimacy without shaking uncontrollably and crying afterward. I want to stop sabotaging everything good in my life.”

The therapist leans in closer, her voice unflinching yet infused with compassion. “What you’re feeling is a very real and common response to trauma. Your body carries the echoes of what your mind longs to forget.” The sentence vibrates inside me like struck glass. The echo isn’t sound; it’s heartbeat, muscle, reflex. A memory stitched into skin. “It’s not your fault, Thalia. That doesn’t mean you can’t heal. It means we need to teach your body to feel safe again. Now intimacy can belong to you, not to him.”