It's late on Thursday night, and I'm alone in our bedroom. Kristoff's on the couch. I just asked to have a night to myself. Nothing's wrong, I just want to re-center myself. I want to look at me, through my own eyes, not others. It's a skill you taught me, and one I haven't used for a long time. It's because the next part of the story—our story—covers therapy, and some serious trauma that came out. I'm not sure if I want to force Joan to see it, you understand, right? Part of me thinks I have to, though. And another part says I have to tell her why—at least in broad strokes. Because I was so stressed and nervous, and you wanted to help, trying to seduce me, and then, well… I froze. I couldn't go through with it.

So here I am, wearing one of Kristoff's flannel shirts over nothing else, pacing back and forth in the master bedroom, worrying at a problem I hadn't seen coming until yesterday. Because I'm an idiot.

Yeah, I think we're all pretty much agreed on that one.

Solutions are not coming to me, and the frustration is building. I throw myself onto the bed and scream into a pillow. At least it lets me vent without scaring people. I remember your laugh the first time I did it—right after you tried seducing me, as I recall. I might even have been in your bed. You were frustrated too, and overly concerned, and that just made me feel worse—and maybe that's something I need to tell Joan too. We were kind of alike like that, weren't we? Always too concerned with each other to notice our own hurts.

But you liked attention sometimes. Being pampered. Worshipped, almost. I've… well that was never me. I know I seemed like the life of the party at times, but you could see through that front. You could see the things I couldn't myself. Things I'd been trying to hide from. Displacement—that's what it was. All because I didn't want to deal with my problems. Because I'd been so beat down I didn't know it was worthwhile to deal with them. Another thing I have to tell Joan, which seems especially relevant given her stress over these exams—which all comes from a desire to impress a woman that's been dead nearly twenty years. And which is probably my fault too.

Something's telling me I'm not gonna be sleeping tonight, and all of a sudden I remember how Cass was making passes at me and how me and Kristoff haven't properly talked about it. I didn't even realise I was doing the pointing thing, and with my tongue between my teeth. And my hair is not that messy, but the mirror doesn't lie. Anyway, I'm actually tempted. Kristoff has to be okay with it though. Joan might ask me some pointed questions, but I think she can handle the truth at her age. Or at least understand where we're coming from.

So maybe with my mind wandering in circles and getting distracted by the sexy I need to bounce ideas off someone. I head downstairs and get Kristoff off the couch. Changing clothes when we're back upstairs, because it's actually cold tonight. I ask his thoughts about Cass making repeated passes at me—he's not the type to get jealous. Protective, yes; but not jealous. He makes good points asking if Cass really knows what she's getting, because it's doubtful she's a unicorn. And for the record, I blame you for ruining my mental image of unicorns with that knowledge.

"I'll text Cass in the afternoon. We'll meet for coffee on the weekend?" He looks at me dubiously. "Me and her. I'll also let her know the rules."

"You'll sound her out about what she actually wants, right?"

"I'll try," I smile for him. "But it's not like she's been subtle."

"True. There are times I might like that though."

I roll on top of him. "Like now?"

"Well, if you insist…" He smiles, and I can feel his fingers tugging on the waistband of my pyjama pants. Maybe I will get some sleep tonight after all.

Friday afternoon and I'm just lying on the couch. Joan is lying on the floor next to the couch. We have blankets. It's not raining, there's a breeze outside, and a lot of cloud darkening the sky. It might be a stormy night. I'm still trying to figure out where to start on this part of the story.

"Try the beginning," Joan huffs. I might mention we've been like this for quarter of an hour.

"The beginning kinda starts with me in Elsa's bedroom. Naked."

"Yeah, you've said—and I said to skip that part. Or go back further. I don't know… I mean, why were you there. I mean, I figure why you probably were and I don't want to think about that, but you kept saying about not being ready during the story…"

—∞—

I had to admit, I still found the idea of needing—let alone going to—therapy, quite weird. I'd needed something to de-stress. Elsa had given me some hints about how she might help. I was such a tangled ball of nerves that I figured anything at all would be good. It wasn't. I couldn't… finish. Hell, we'd hardly even started when she wound up on the floor and I was feeling sick to my stomach. I felt worse than before. She wasn't feeling much better, to be fair. I was still confused, and a bit out of it. She left a note for me in the morning.

Tell someone.

I knew who she meant, but I wasn't sure I was ready to reveal that to my therapist yet. I was scared, too. She had a rehearsal during the afternoon, probably running in to the evening. I didn't want to do this alone—more, I wanted someone to force me into it. I wanted to chicken out. So much—but a small part of me remembered the cost, and I didn't want to be wasting that much money. Another part of me said that getting better would only happen if I faced it. Running from it would let it control me.

I pulled up to the building, mid-afternoon, ten minutes early. Doctor Spiros was outside, talking with someone. The pale blue hair gave him away. The other person—woman—with him had rich purple highlights. I caught a few snatches of conversation on the wind. It sounded like they were talking about hair dye. Which made sense, given their appearances. Doctor Spiros gave me a small wave as I walked in. Ms Lake was seated behind the desk. She hardly looked up as the door closed behind me.

"Doctor Spiros is just on a short break, Miss Christian; you can wait in his office if you'd prefer."

His office was the same as on my last visit. Mostly. Wall lights with a flame motif shifted between blues and oranges. As I watched they changed back again, colours shifting slowly between a warm sunset orange and the bright, cold blue.

"Ah, Miss Christian." He must have seen me looking at the lights. "A spot of theater. The coloured globes are an interesting touch—although, if they're these new LED's, should I still be calling them globes?"

I blinked. He looked at me, waiting for an answer. I shrugged. "I don't really know."

"That's fine," he smiled, then closed the door for us. "I am glad you were on time. People sometimes have trouble facing these challenges alone—unless your chaperone will be arriving later?"

"No," I shook my head. "Elsa has work stuff she can't get out of."

"You still feel you can talk, without her support?"

"I have to if I want to get better, right?" I nervously reached for the piece of paper in my pocket. "I do want to get better, but I mean I didn't really feel any better after last week, and I wondered if that's normal, and then something happened last night and I don't know if I can talk about it but I'll have to get better and maybe I can put it off for a little while but anyway this is everything I wrote down last time and it's okay, Elsa's seen it—I mean, I forgot I told her a long time ago, but she knew and called me an idiot—but not like an insult, like… pet name… I think. She doesn't do it much, but she was right and please just take it so I can stop tal—thank you."

"You are not normally a nervous person?"

I lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. "I didn't think I had any problems, except an abusive ex. But I guess… well…"

"Which problem is giving you the most difficulty right now?"

I let out a frustrated huff, waving my hands around. "The one I can't talk about."

"Can you tell me why you can't talk about this?" Out of the corner of my eye I saw him sit in one of the single seaters. "Take as long as you need. While you gather your thoughts, I will look over what you wrote for me last time."

He made no sound as he read my note. I did hear the occasional scratching of a pen, but that was it. I was trying to work up the courage to explain that I was uncomfortable talking about sex with a stranger. Even though he was paid to listen, and help. The silence in the room was almost deafening, making me uncomfortable.

"Would you prefer some background noise?" his voice was quiet. "I have classic music, white noise, whale song, or ASMR sounds."

"ASMR?" My eyebrows knitted together in confusion. I'd never heard the term before. "Is that some special therapy thing?"

"No," I heard him shifting slightly in his seat. "You may be thinking of EMDR therapy. ASMR sounds are something of an odd assortment that people find relaxing, or that give them 'tingles'. The science behind it—what little there is—quite intrigues me."

I was silent for a moment, thinking. "What sort of classical do you have?"

"Bach, Rachmaninov, Tchaikovsky, Zimmerman."

That last name sounded too familiar. Too new. "Wait… Zimmerman…?"

"The man who has scored many modern movies as if it were a fine art. His latest work is quite something; deep and contemplative, if you'd like to hear it."

Piano, strings, and something else. Long, slow notes, building gradually but never truly reaching a crescendo. Yes, some of what Elsa had told me about accompanying music had rubbed off on me. An organ. That was the final instrument. Doctor Spiros was right—this piece was good for contemplation.

But it still didn't help me find my voice.

"Miss Christian, I am going to ask you some questions about what you wrote from our last session. Is this okay with you?"

I nodded. "Yes. I have to face it."

"That is a good attitude to have, though sometimes it makes acceptance harder."

"Acceptance?"

"Of the fact that this happened to you. That it happened then, and is not happening now." He placed the clipboard down, then leant over for a moment to read my scribble. "It seems quite clear from what you wrote that you are currently disgusted with what you attempted. Is this true?"

I nodded slowly. "I'm not sure 'disgusted' is strong enough."

"Then we can find another word; later," he picked up the clipboard and scribbled something on his paper. "After you were injured, it appears as if you felt more confused than betrayed or fearful. Would that be accurate?"

I closed my eyes and tried to think. I felt something drawing me back and I sat up with a gasp, betrayed by my ragged breath. This wasn't right. Just thinking about it shouldn't force me back.

"Miss Christian," there was genuine concern in his voice. "I am sorry if I triggered that memory for you. We can take a moment if you would like."

"No, it's… I just tried to thin… and I felt… I didn't want to go back again."

"Eventually you will have to face it; and face it with the knowledge that both version of you are the same person."

I blinked, then turned to look at him. "What?"

"Part of the difficulty you are having stems from the fact you don't want to believe you were capable of the act that so disgusted you," he smiled kindly. "But you aren't two different people. You can't be. You are one person who was changed deeply by a traumatic experience—and there is nothing wrong with that."

"Just hearing that isn't going to cure me, is it?" I sighed heavily, then flopped back down.

"No." Another pause as he scribbled something else on his clipboard. "It's good you're honest enough to admit that. To admit that you have a problem, and that you need help solving it. There are many too stubborn to realize that."

"I just wish I had something to snap me back if it happened again—especially with the thing I can't talk about."

"A grounding exercise may help; a simple mantra to return your mind to the present," he gestured for me to get up. "Now please, stand. Good. How do you feel?"

"A little silly, to be honest. I'm not in school anymore."

He laughed. "Ah, maybe not, but this is a lesson. First, take a deep breath. What are five things you can see?"

"You, your clipboard, chairs, a beanbag, the wall."

"Excellent. Now take another breath. Hold it for a moment. Now tell me four things you can hear."

"Breathing. Your music. A… bird…?" I was really struggling for the fourth, trying to find anything. Anything at all. Something that was there all along. "My heartbeat."

"That one's always a little hard in my office—three would have been enough here, but the count is four for the exercise, okay?"

"Okay," I nodded, looking around. "What's next?"

"Another deep breath. Now, what are three things you can feel?"

"My heartbeat," screw it, it counts. "One of my socks has slipped down, and… a little cold, I guess?"

"All good things, you're thinking more and more about the present moment you're living in. Another breath. What are two things you can smell?"

"Cologne."

"I wear it for Percy, and good nose. Another scent?"

"Coffee?" Maybe. I wasn't sure. "Black Tea?"

"Black tea, Lakey just brewed a fresh batch. My next patient quite enjoys taking tea during a session."

"I feel like I'm missing something here…" The exercise seemed incomplete, but he was talking about unrelated topics.

"The last step. Take another deep breath. Hold it. Let it out. One thing that you can taste."

I couldn't really taste anything. Mostly because I'd been too nervous for lunch. "I can't really taste anything. Lip balm, maybe…"

"It counts. That can be the hardest, which is why it's last in the list. Now, repeat after me: Breaths."

"Breaths." It felt kind of silly, repeating it like this.

"Five sights."

"Five sights." Almost like I was back in school.

"Four sounds." Hearing him speak, his voice was strangely encouraging.

"Four sounds." Saying it again felt less silly.

"Three touches." I only noticed then that he was also counting these down with the fingers on his left hand.

"Three touches." There would be times this might be much easier.

"Two smells."

"Two smells." I sniffed out of reflex. I could still smell the tea.

"One taste."

"One taste." I almost laughed, remembering that lip balm was all I had for that one.

"Excellent. Now, next time you're afraid of being drawn back, you have a tool to help you. What do you do?"

"Breaths."

"Good. Next?"

"Five sights. And breathe. Four sounds. Breathe. Three touches. Two smells. One taste."

"And breathe between each. And why do we identify all these things?"

"To ground me. So I come back to the now."

"Excellent. I have a written version I can give you, if you'd like. It's printed on a business card, for those that might prefer privacy about their mental health."

I took one, tucking it into my purse.

"Now Miss Christian, I would like to schedule our next session in a fortnight—is that acceptable to you?"

"Wednesday afternoon?" I didn't think I'd have too many issues with Kristoff. Once a fortnight, after all.

"Yes. We can make this your regular appointment, if you'd like."

"I would." I looked around, the checked the time on my phone. We'd run a little over. "I hope I'm not keeping anyone waiting."

"A little, but they won't mind. We do try our best, but sometimes things get away from us. And that's perfectly fine. That's life, not any kind of failure—and I hope you can remember that too."

I would remember that one. A lot longer too. It helped me more than I thought.

—∞—

"Wow, mom… that grounding thing…" Joan's surprised, and maybe a little concerned for me. It's quite touching.

"It was quite helpful," I give her a smile. "But afterwards, it's that last bit I remembered more."

"I think there's something you're leaving out—maybe something later in the day?" Perceptive, she is.

I give her a challenge. "Well, what do you think it was I couldn't talk about?"

Her eyes, tracking her fingers trying to cross each other. "Oh. Oh…" the way her eyebrows are going up. I can't quite stifle a laugh. "Ugh…"

I look her in the eye. "And that's why I'm not telling you about the rest of that day."

"Well… thanks," she's still looking at me dubiously. "I think."

I laugh softly. "This one's better for my memories, not yours," I stick my tongue out. "You've got too much imagination."

…I probably deserved the pillow to the face.