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And then he’s gone, his footsteps diminishing.
Breathe, Ava.
I suck in a huge breath, my entire self recalibrating after that tiny, human connection, my mind spinning at my bravery.
I spoke to a stranger. To a man.
And I’m unhurt.
After a quick shower at home,I return to the city for an appointment.
Dave Turner is my seventh counsellor. Technically speaking, he’s probably only the third, because between him and my first three therapists, I’ve seen a hypnotherapist, I’ve spent two nights in a sleep clinic with a Sleep Professor, and I’ve spoken to a quirky individual who specialised in past life regressions. Reincarnation isn’t an avenue I want to pursue, but it was a fascinating conversation, one where I questioned everything I’ve ever learned about the scientific world.
The reason I’m now seeing Dave is because no-one has been remotely helpful so far.
Six weeks ago, something terrible happened to me and I can’t remember a single thing about it. And while my friends and family have been supportive of this path—ofprofessional help—Tilly is now wondering if it’s making me worse, not better.
“You’ve got a new plant,” I tell Dave as I take my seat in a battered but comfortable leather chair.
He looks to the corner of his mahogany desk and smiles. “The previous occupant of that corner has gone into early retirement.”
I can’t help but smile. “Somewhere sunny I hope. Bournemouth?”
“Bournemouth,” he mutters, chuckling at the ridiculous suggestion. “No. His investments got him as far as Florida.”
Avuncular, funny, and cuddly in stature, Dave reminds me of the guy who played Cameron inModern Family. His friendly face is reassuring and non-threatening, belying his real age by about a decade and a half. It was only after reading through his professional experience that I realised he wasn’t the forty-year-old man I thought he was. And crucially, the past few weeks that I’ve met with him have been almost . . . anticipatory. I feel like some progress has been made. With me. Not with the case or my memory—I’m not sure what I need to do to remember—but I’m hoping that if I feel better in myself, maybe the rest will follow.
That’s what Dave has said we can hope for. He doesn’t apply pressure the way his predecessors did, for which I’m grateful. And while it was annoying to start right at the beginning again with a new counsellor, going over my survivor’s guilt, my absence of memories, my diagnosis of PTSD, Dave’s been a great listener. Our discussions on abduction and trafficking have been helpful, even if I can’t quite relate to everything just yet.
“Have you been to Florida?” I ask.
“No. I prefer miserable, dreary winters like those here.”
“Isn’t a counsellor supposed to instil a sense of optimism and hope in his or her client?” I tease back.
“Not this one. I don’t offer falsities, just logic and practicalities.” I know he’s just trying to be funny so I don’t bite when he continues, “As a scientist, you must be familiar with this approach. Maybe even prefer it?” He picks up his biro, ready to write details of my troubled, absent mind into the red-backed notebook in front of him. Taking a moment to read something, he flips to a new page and says, “At the end of our session last week, guilt was mentioned again. Can you tell me anything more about your feelings on this?”
I shrug. It’s obvious why I feel guilty. I can’t unlock anything useful from my head. I was missing in the Netherlands for eight days, returning home with horrific physical injuries. There was tearing in my rectum, internal bruising there and elsewhere. I have scars on my torso, my back, and a sickening tattoo on my arse. My boyfriend, Jonas, was beaten black and blue when I was abducted, desperately searching for me in a foreign country, reliant on the local police force until more help arrived via the consulate.
“I ache for Jonas’s injuries, for the hurt he went through and the anguish he feels for what happened to me. I knowhefeels guilty for not being able to stop what happened. And I feel guilty that what happened—even though I don’t remember it—has come between us. Our relationship struggled afterwards, and we accepted that it had to end. It doesn’t stop the guilt though.”
Dave nods, letting time extend so that I have space to talk if I want it. Eventually, he asks, “Do you miss him, or the relationship you had?”
I inhale slowly. “We still text every now and then, so there’s that. I don’t miss the physical aspect.” In fact, the physical aspect never really got going again. I struggled with the concept of intimacy knowing I was brutalised and sold for sex. The feelings of humiliation, disgust, and fear notwithstanding, in the end, it was too difficult for Jonas to tackle. I pushed him away every time, not understanding my own body. His gentle enquiries ofAre you okay?sending me over the edge.
Can I kiss you?
Can I touch you here?
Is this okay?
Mentally, all those questions knotted me up even more because I didn’tknow.I didn’t know if it was okay to touch me there. I can’t recall what had happened before in that part of my body. What would happen if he touched me? Would it jog my brain into giving up its secrets?
Just thinking about all the heart-rending problems we faced makes me shiver. Spending time with Jonas gave me more heartache than solace, despite having someone to share the most traumatic, unforgettable experience of my life with.
Except minewasforgettable.
“Do you think you feel guilty for not wanting to be sexual with him?”
