Page 26 of Letters From A Stalker

Because somewhere between Julia Hayes walking into my office and walking back out again, little ember became my little ember.

And I have absolutely no idea when the fuck I decided she belonged to me.

6

Julia

By the time I get home, I have apparently said the words “I’m fine” eleven times since leaving Dr. Blackwood’s office. I know this because my new therapist gave me homework. Not actual homework, according to him. “Observation”, which is therapist language for homework in exactly the same way “mild discomfort” is doctor language for “this is probably going to hurt like a bitch”. And I know this with absolute certainty because the asshole is not the first one who ever came up with this concept. The fact that he wants me to stick to it just proves that he’s very good at what he does. That thought should comfort me but all it does, it makes me more anxious.

I’m supposed to notice every time I tell someone I’m fine when I’m not, every time I apologize for needing something. Every time I make a joke because saying what I actually feel would leave too much exposed, and every time I turn something painful into something practical because practical feels safer. At the time, sitting across from him with my water bottle slowly being strangled to death between my hands, I thought it sounded manageable. Annoying, invasive, and suspiciously designed to make me question every interaction I have with another human being for the foreseeable future, but manageable.

Then I called Tessa from the car, and started counting. Eleven. I’ve said “I’m fine” eleven fucking times, and those are only the ones I caught. Out of those eleven times, I said it two times in a row which made it that much more obvious he was right. Asshole.

I close the front door behind me and remain there for a moment with my hand resting on the lock, listening to the familiar quiet of my house settle around me. There’s something different about coming home after therapy. I remember that from before. You walk through the same door, drop your keys into the same little ceramic bowl, kick off the same shoes you nearly broke your neck tripping over yesterday, and everything looks exactly as you left it. The throw blanket is still hanging casually over the arm of the couch. One of my plants is leaning toward the window with the desperate determination of a Victorian child reaching for sunlight from a sickbed.

Nothing has changed. Except somebody spent fifty minutes rummaging around inside your head, and now you’re supposed to make dinner like that didn’t happen.

I drop my purse onto the little bench beside the door and look at the plant.

“You’re being overly dramatic, you do realize that?”

The plant, having known me long enough to understand hypocrisy when it hears it, says nothing.

“Ugh, fine…” I roll my eyes and start walking. “I’ll get you some water, hold your… leaves.”

I walk into the kitchen. My phone buzzes inside the back pocket of my jeans before I make it three steps.

Tessa:

Still alive?

I stare at the message.

My fingers immediately type:

Me:

I’m fine.

I stop before hitting send.

Oh, fuck you, Dr. Blackwood.

I delete it.

Me:

Home. Emotionally violated but otherwise functional.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Tessa:

THAT IS NOT WHAT I ASKED.

I smile despite myself.

Me: