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Poor confused Emily.
“I’d really like some drugs,” I said.
It was nearing the end of the session, and no progress had been made. For a brief moment, I imagined myself lying in a tub full of warm water while a peaceful buzz flowed over me, the bathwater going pink like Valentine’s Day from my blood. Her voice cut off the fantasy.
“I’ll tell you what. I’m going to give you some homework. I would like for you to keep a journal this next week of as much as you feel you can share, and we’ll discuss it during next week’s session. If you can do that for me, then we’ll talk about prescribing something.”
Blackmail.
It was the socially-approved equivalent ofblow me, and I’ll get you some of the good stuff. But I only nodded.
She was scribbling furiously on the yellow legal pad as I got up to leave. I had no idea what brilliant insights she felt she’d gleaned from my psyche in such a short period. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Since I had the car, I drove to the bookstore and picked out a journal. What the hell? I would go through my journal back in the Mercedes and copy the least revealing and private entries. I was sure enough emotion and trauma had gone into writing them.
I’d immediately rejected the notion of giving her the original journal. Besides being too personal, she might hand it over to the police as evidence. It was more violation than I could accept. I didn’t need more strangers trying to peer into the most private parts of me.
By the time I got to the storage facility, the sun was going down. I sat in the Mercedes crying as I copied journal entries while listening to the music I’d missed having for weeks.
I’m not sure how much time passed sitting in the car. Although the storage facility wasn’t on the main drag, I knew I took some measure of risk sitting there with the garage-style door open and the car running to play the music.
I copied several sections into the journal I’d just bought. It was heavily censored, but compared to today’s session I was pouring my heart out. It would be enough to get me medicated, then I’d switch doctors.
I didn’t need someone prying into my head, taking me apart bit by bit so they could put me back together again the way they felt I was supposed to be.
When I got home, I slipped the censored journal under the mattress of the bed in the guest room. Dinner was on the table, and my mother didn’t say a word to me as she dipped food out onto my plate.
No,Where have you been? Why didn’t you call? I thought you’d driven into a lake or something.She was gritting her teeth, but she was holding it in.
“Why the hell didn’t you call? Your appointment was for an hour. You didn’t think maybe I might need the car for something?”
Or not.
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I picked up my plate and took it to the guest room and shut the door. I clicked on the TV with the remote and scooted back up on the bed leaning against the wicker headboard.
I knew I was behaving like a twelve-year-old, but I’d learned from experience it was better to steer clear of my mother when she was in this mode.
I pulled the journal out from under the bed again. It was light brown with Celtic knotwork. I traced a finger over the delicate design with one hand, as I absently shoveled chicken casserole into my mouth with the other. I’d filled about thirty pages of the book, surely enough for homework and drugs.
I Love Lucywas playing on low in the background. The canned laughter filtered over to me on the bed.
For a moment I thought about turning him in. What if? I was still angry with him for throwing me away. Shouldn’t he be punished for that? Even if it seemed like he was being punished for something quite different? He’d know the real reason.
I tried to imagine the look on his face when the squad cars pulled into his driveway. Would he be remorseful? Ashamed? Shocked? Accepting? Would he adjust to imprisonment as well as I had?
I wondered again if he believed freeing me had been a cruelty or a kindness, if he thought he’d done something wrong in taking me. I wondered if he regretted letting me go, and if he ever thought of me or dreamed of me as I did him. Surely my obsession couldn’t now be greater than his.
Would I be in trouble for lying and obstructing justice? Would someone lock me in a cell no matter how brief the time, thinking it was okay because I hadn’t told the truth to the all-powerful police arm of the government?
Or could I play the fear card?He terrorized me too much to speak. I was afraid he’d come for me again.I didn’t know.
But although the revenge fantasy was appealing for a moment, it quickly faded, replaced with the same feeling I always got when thinking of him as anything but omnipotent. Anxiety.
The next day was different. I don’t know if it was seeing Dr. Blake or if the reality of my freedom had finally sunk in, but I started to get things together. I looked for an apartment, a small one. I had enough in the bank to see me through a year maybe while I tried to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
I would adjust and be okay. I’d find my place in the world again, and this would just be something I’d experienced, but not something that had changed the core of who I was. I could be cured. I’d go through all the standard trauma responses, and then at the end of it I would be asurvivor.
I could be unbrainwashed. It would require new conditioning, but it could be done. I could be free of him forever, mentally as well as physically.
