head, I mean.”
“You mean thoughts and memories of the rape?”
I felt a familiar shudder of fear and nausea—as I always did when that night flashed though my conscious mind—but I pushed it back to the little dark corner the way I’d learned to do. “Yeah. It’s not just like thinking about it. When it comes into my mind, it consumes everything. And I can’t stop it. Then it’s like I’m...I’m reliving it. They told me it was normal. PTSD or whatever. But it feels like demons.”
“Yeah. I can see why. So you were saying that moving back into your apartment would make the demons rise.”
“Yeah. I know it would. I don’t think I can do it.”
“What about being in your old apartment would be so hard?”
“It just would. It reminds me of all of that. All the stupid things I used to be so obsessed with—clothes and antiques and shoes and everything. Seeing all of it again now would make me feel...I don’t know. I don’t want to remember her.”
There was a pause, one so long that I looked up from my hands, which I’d been staring at. Dr. Jones was just watching me quietly.
“Do you realize that you’re dividing yourself?” she asked at last.
“What?”
“You’ve referred to yourself as ‘her’ now three times. You call your own thoughts and memories ‘demons’, as if they’re external to you. Do you realize you’re doing that? Dividing yourself?”
I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I just shook my head. When she didn’t reply and was obviously waiting for me to say something, I mumbled, “It’s just that the girl I used to be doesn’t feel like me anymore.”
“Okay. I understand that. You feel like your previous self is entirely different from who you are now. So tell me this. In your mind, is the Diana who was raped the Diana you used to be or the Diana you are now?”
I had no idea how to answer that question either.
***
“A re you sure about this?” Gideon asked, shifting the box he carried from arm to arm and looking around the simple living area with a slightly wary expression.
“What do you mean?” I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
“Are you sure you want to live here?”
I’d left the Center that morning and was moving into a vacation cottage my dad owned outside of the city. It was already furnished, but Gideon had volunteered to help me bring over the personal things I needed.
“Why not? It’s in good shape and comfortable and I don’t need a very big place.” I tried to sound casual, but I felt rather irritated and defensive about the question. It was bad enough for Dr. Jones to ask me all about my living choices. I didn’t need Gideon nagging me about it too.
“But it’s so isolated and far away from everything.” He set the box he held on the table, since it was full of kitchen stuff. “Are you sure you want to be so disconnected?”
The cottage was only about forty-five minutes outside of the city—not even as far as the Center had been. But it sat on several acres of property, so there weren’t any houses or businesses close by.
“Yeah. I’m sure. I can’t move back to my apartment. I can’t...I can’t be that person again.”
He leaned back so he was propped on the edge of the table and watched me quietly for a minute, in a way that made me very self-conscious. The afternoon sun streamed in through the window, burnishing his light brown hair almost gold. He wore short sleeves and his cast was off at last, so I could see both of his forearms. He’d had the tattoos that used to be there removed.
“Okay,” he said at last. “But what about finding a new apartment in the city? I’m just worried that you won’t feel safe here.”
I shook my head, trying to force down my annoyance. I really wished this stupid conversation would end, but I couldn’t bring myself to be rude to Gideon. In a voice of artificial calm, I replied, “I was kidnapped off a city street. That...that row house was in the city.
“You mean thoughts and memories of the rape?”
I felt a familiar shudder of fear and nausea—as I always did when that night flashed though my conscious mind—but I pushed it back to the little dark corner the way I’d learned to do. “Yeah. It’s not just like thinking about it. When it comes into my mind, it consumes everything. And I can’t stop it. Then it’s like I’m...I’m reliving it. They told me it was normal. PTSD or whatever. But it feels like demons.”
“Yeah. I can see why. So you were saying that moving back into your apartment would make the demons rise.”
“Yeah. I know it would. I don’t think I can do it.”
“What about being in your old apartment would be so hard?”
“It just would. It reminds me of all of that. All the stupid things I used to be so obsessed with—clothes and antiques and shoes and everything. Seeing all of it again now would make me feel...I don’t know. I don’t want to remember her.”
There was a pause, one so long that I looked up from my hands, which I’d been staring at. Dr. Jones was just watching me quietly.
“Do you realize that you’re dividing yourself?” she asked at last.
“What?”
“You’ve referred to yourself as ‘her’ now three times. You call your own thoughts and memories ‘demons’, as if they’re external to you. Do you realize you’re doing that? Dividing yourself?”
I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I just shook my head. When she didn’t reply and was obviously waiting for me to say something, I mumbled, “It’s just that the girl I used to be doesn’t feel like me anymore.”
“Okay. I understand that. You feel like your previous self is entirely different from who you are now. So tell me this. In your mind, is the Diana who was raped the Diana you used to be or the Diana you are now?”
I had no idea how to answer that question either.
***
“A re you sure about this?” Gideon asked, shifting the box he carried from arm to arm and looking around the simple living area with a slightly wary expression.
“What do you mean?” I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
“Are you sure you want to live here?”
I’d left the Center that morning and was moving into a vacation cottage my dad owned outside of the city. It was already furnished, but Gideon had volunteered to help me bring over the personal things I needed.
“Why not? It’s in good shape and comfortable and I don’t need a very big place.” I tried to sound casual, but I felt rather irritated and defensive about the question. It was bad enough for Dr. Jones to ask me all about my living choices. I didn’t need Gideon nagging me about it too.
“But it’s so isolated and far away from everything.” He set the box he held on the table, since it was full of kitchen stuff. “Are you sure you want to be so disconnected?”
The cottage was only about forty-five minutes outside of the city—not even as far as the Center had been. But it sat on several acres of property, so there weren’t any houses or businesses close by.
“Yeah. I’m sure. I can’t move back to my apartment. I can’t...I can’t be that person again.”
He leaned back so he was propped on the edge of the table and watched me quietly for a minute, in a way that made me very self-conscious. The afternoon sun streamed in through the window, burnishing his light brown hair almost gold. He wore short sleeves and his cast was off at last, so I could see both of his forearms. He’d had the tattoos that used to be there removed.
“Okay,” he said at last. “But what about finding a new apartment in the city? I’m just worried that you won’t feel safe here.”
I shook my head, trying to force down my annoyance. I really wished this stupid conversation would end, but I couldn’t bring myself to be rude to Gideon. In a voice of artificial calm, I replied, “I was kidnapped off a city street. That...that row house was in the city.
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