it makes me feel better. It’s a reminder that there are good people out there, even if they aren’t in my house.
Quarter clutched in my hand, I close the jewelry box and go to curl up in my window seat. Staring past the gates, I’m willing Ari to return when I notice instead that even more protestors with signs are arriving outside the gates.
I assume Daddy said something controversial. Every tim e it happens, we end up with protestors. My cell phone and wallet were thrown into the fountain at Sven’s. Chris brought me a new phone a few days ago, one without the pics of the guys who did this to me. I don’t need reminders. I see them in my dreams every night. I promised Ari I’d buy her a new snakeskin wallet someday, if I ever feel like leaving the house.
One week turns into two, three, four. It takes that long for my eyes to both work right, though there’s still faint bruising around one. The scrapes on my cheek and fingers are gone. My fingernails have grown back partially, and the bruises on my body are almost all gone. I can pee without pain and brush my hair over the stitches in my head.
In every way, I’m told I’m improving by the physician and the people in my house. Physically, maybe, but I can’t get them out of my head. They’re in my dreams and every dark corner of the house. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, but I’m terrified of nighttime now and of being alone. It still feels like the incident happened yesterday.
During one of my counseling sessions, I tell my distant cousin, Dr. Thompkins, all of this.
“Where do you feel safe?” he asks.
I hate the shrink. He might be the best, but he’s got the personality of my carpet. I look from the window to him. I gave up being sarcastic with him. I don’t think he gets humor of any kind.
“My closet,” I reply.
“What makes you feel safe about your closet?”
“It’s small. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. The light lights up every inch.”
“When you start to feel the fear, can you imagine yourself in the closet?”
“I can just go to the closet.”
“Mia, part of what we’re trying to do is give you tools to deal with the anxiety you feel. If you can’t handle it, how can you go back to school? How can you leave the house?” he asks.
“I will when I feel better.”
“ Feeling better takes active participation and understanding how to think differently about something that disturbs you,” he reminds me for the millionth time. “If you think you’ll ever stop remembering, or there’s a reset button, you need to listen to me when I tell you this isn’t the case.”
I know as much. I feel overwhelmed and rest my chin on my knee.
“What goes through your mind when I say that?” he asks.
“That I don’t believe you.”
He waits for me to say more. Ari texts me, and I look down.
Forgot to tell you. The protestor signs say something about Joan of Arc. Did your daddy insult a saint? LOL
I smile. Ari has been in and out the past few weeks, and Dr. Thompkins has stopped telling me not to text during our sessions.
“What does Ari say?” he asks.
“She said the protestors are mad at Daddy for something he said about Joan of Arc or something. Funny, he can even piss off a dead woman.”
“Does he … piss you off much?” he asks.
“All the time. He cares more about politics than anything else.”
“More than you?”
“Yeah. He didn’t even come to the hospital,” I say.
“You have a problem with him or the nature of his work?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Do you love your father?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“But you don’t love the politician.”
“Nope,” I say firmly.
“What was he doing the night you were in the hospital?”
“Trying to bribe some paper to keep them from publishing pics of me.”
“Do you think that’s his way of trying to take care of you?” Dr. Thompkins asks.
“It’s his way of saving face.”
“Mia, your expectations of how your father should
Quarter clutched in my hand, I close the jewelry box and go to curl up in my window seat. Staring past the gates, I’m willing Ari to return when I notice instead that even more protestors with signs are arriving outside the gates.
I assume Daddy said something controversial. Every tim e it happens, we end up with protestors. My cell phone and wallet were thrown into the fountain at Sven’s. Chris brought me a new phone a few days ago, one without the pics of the guys who did this to me. I don’t need reminders. I see them in my dreams every night. I promised Ari I’d buy her a new snakeskin wallet someday, if I ever feel like leaving the house.
One week turns into two, three, four. It takes that long for my eyes to both work right, though there’s still faint bruising around one. The scrapes on my cheek and fingers are gone. My fingernails have grown back partially, and the bruises on my body are almost all gone. I can pee without pain and brush my hair over the stitches in my head.
In every way, I’m told I’m improving by the physician and the people in my house. Physically, maybe, but I can’t get them out of my head. They’re in my dreams and every dark corner of the house. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, but I’m terrified of nighttime now and of being alone. It still feels like the incident happened yesterday.
During one of my counseling sessions, I tell my distant cousin, Dr. Thompkins, all of this.
“Where do you feel safe?” he asks.
I hate the shrink. He might be the best, but he’s got the personality of my carpet. I look from the window to him. I gave up being sarcastic with him. I don’t think he gets humor of any kind.
“My closet,” I reply.
“What makes you feel safe about your closet?”
“It’s small. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. The light lights up every inch.”
“When you start to feel the fear, can you imagine yourself in the closet?”
“I can just go to the closet.”
“Mia, part of what we’re trying to do is give you tools to deal with the anxiety you feel. If you can’t handle it, how can you go back to school? How can you leave the house?” he asks.
“I will when I feel better.”
“ Feeling better takes active participation and understanding how to think differently about something that disturbs you,” he reminds me for the millionth time. “If you think you’ll ever stop remembering, or there’s a reset button, you need to listen to me when I tell you this isn’t the case.”
I know as much. I feel overwhelmed and rest my chin on my knee.
“What goes through your mind when I say that?” he asks.
“That I don’t believe you.”
He waits for me to say more. Ari texts me, and I look down.
Forgot to tell you. The protestor signs say something about Joan of Arc. Did your daddy insult a saint? LOL
I smile. Ari has been in and out the past few weeks, and Dr. Thompkins has stopped telling me not to text during our sessions.
“What does Ari say?” he asks.
“She said the protestors are mad at Daddy for something he said about Joan of Arc or something. Funny, he can even piss off a dead woman.”
“Does he … piss you off much?” he asks.
“All the time. He cares more about politics than anything else.”
“More than you?”
“Yeah. He didn’t even come to the hospital,” I say.
“You have a problem with him or the nature of his work?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Do you love your father?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“But you don’t love the politician.”
“Nope,” I say firmly.
“What was he doing the night you were in the hospital?”
“Trying to bribe some paper to keep them from publishing pics of me.”
“Do you think that’s his way of trying to take care of you?” Dr. Thompkins asks.
“It’s his way of saving face.”
“Mia, your expectations of how your father should
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