Under Your Care

Chapter 3

Lane

I wondered if there was a specific word to describe the crushing regret you feel just before following through on a decision.

Sitting in the therapy office, waiting for my name to be called, I traced the lines of the tile floor with my eyes. I fidgeted with the buttons on my baby pink blouse that I chose for this grand adventure out of my apartment. I had worn my favorite color to give me strength, but now I was worried whether my new therapist might judge me for it. When I booked the appointment, I was in a completely different mood and thought that this could be amazing and helpful and life-changing.

I wouldn’t have even thought about going back to therapy if my mom hadn’t been continuously bringing up the idea. Now, as I sat in the waiting room, about to be asked uncomfortable questions for an hour by a stranger, I wished I had just stayed home.

The receptionist who I had spoken with on the phone when I scheduled, Amelia, glanced over to me with a bright smile.

“Mr. Bennett, Dr. Cohen will be out in just a minute to get you! He’s just finishing up with the previous appointment.”

Just then, the door next to the receptionist’s desk creaked open, voices leaking out into the waiting room. An older woman stepped out into the waiting room, still clutching a handful of tissues.

“Alright, Mrs. Brady, I’ll see you back next month. Make sure to schedule your next visit with Amelia before heading out. I’ll be waiting to hear how everything goes.”

A man a lot taller than myself, dressed impeccably, smiled politely as he followed the woman through the door. I curiously noticed that his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Interesting. His client didn’t seem to notice though, so maybe I was just seeing things. As the woman turned away, he slid his gaze across the room to me.

He was gorgeous.

He was big, like his size had been earned through tough manual labor and a love of good food. He had on a taupe suit that looked like it cost more than my college tuition. His dirty blonde hair was cut just below his ears, giving it more than enough length to tug on. But what drew me in the most were his eyes. They were light hazel, or maybe brown - almost the color of honey. The corners of his lips tugged up - just barely - as he noticed my appraisal. I guess I hadn’t been as subtle as I thought I was being.

“Mr. Bennett, thank you for waiting. You can follow me and we’ll get started,” he smiled.

As I stood up from my chair, I watched as his eyes scanned up and down my own body. I was considerably shorter than him, without any muscles, and wearing pink heart earrings. He probably thought that I was in high school. My freckles were splattered across my cheeks and most of my body. At least I wasn’t wearing any of my makeup today - I could only imagine the judgement I’d have received from him for that. I wasn’t normally this self-critical of my appearance, but when you’re looking at perfection, you start to feel inadequate.

He held the door open for me, waiting for me to enter. After a left at the end of a short hallway, we were met with another door. This one had a small, silver plaque reading Dr. Greyson Cohen . I felt like I’d already ruined our therapist-patient relationship by practically eye-fucking him in the waiting area.

Dr. Cohen opened his office door and nodded his head for me to go in. His office was dimly-lit, the light coming solely from a floor lamp, rather than overhead lights. The forest green walls were covered with full bookshelves, framed degrees, and a few classical art pieces. The room itself was about the same size as my studio apartment. In the center was a comfy-looking suede couch and a matching high-backed chair.

“Please, sit,” he offered, waving his hand to the couch as he took his place in the chair.

“So, Mr. Bennett, I am Dr. Cohen. While I have a doctorate, it’s not in medicine, so I can’t prescribe any medications to you. However, the office next door houses a great psychiatrist, Dr. Carraway. We often refer patients to one another. As this is the first time we’ve met, I’d like to start by getting to know you and we can go from there.”

His voice, deep and smooth like honey - just like the color of his eyes - soothed my frayed nerves a little.

“I don’t mind if you call me Lane rather than Mr. Bennett. But, if you’re uncomfortable with that then it’s okay - you don’t have to.” I waited to continue until he gave me a smile and nod. “Well, this is my first time back in therapy for a few years. I practically grew up in therapists’ offices, but I decided to stop going once I was eighteen. I guess I just felt like I wasn’t making any progress.”

I thought back to my childhood of revolving doors, white walls with cheesy motivational posters, and concerned looks. My parents had first put me into therapy at age eight because they were worried about why I was so quiet all the time. I don’t remember feeling like anything was wrong then; I was simply more comfortable listening to others than joining into their conversations. I was a daydreamer.

I would spend my days making up elaborate stories in my head, feeling like I was the puppeteer of my characters’ lives. When I would have to interact with others, or pay attention to a lesson, I’d simply “pause” the play and resume whenever I was able to be alone in my head again. It wasn’t until the summer after I turned ten that I actually began to need help.

But it took until I was fourteen to admit to anyone what was happening. Then, it was therapy twice a week, a new therapist every month, my parents begging me to talk to them, and the psychiatrist with her endless supply of tiny white pills to dull the pain inside my head. It all felt so far away now, almost like I was watching myself go to appointment after appointment through a television screen. When people would talk to me, it sounded like fuzzy TV static.

“Lane?” Dr. Cohen furrowed his brow.

“Hm?” Realizing he was waiting for me to continue, I said, “Oh, sorry! I was just thinking about what to tell you.”

I offered him a hesitant smile. He tilted his head slightly as he stared at me with a little spark of interest in his eyes. I couldn’t manage to hold his eye contact, so I shifted my gaze to one of the bookshelves behind him. Was I supposed to hold eye contact for the whole conversation? That felt like too much. What if he thought I was on drugs? What if he thought I was being rude if I didn’t make enough eye contact? God - this was why I only talked to my cat.

“Lane, you don’t need to think about what to tell me. All you have to do is listen to my questions and answer honestly. If you’re too uncomfortable with any of my questions, just let me know and we’ll table it until a future session. I can imagine how difficult it must be after being out of practice for a few years. You’re twenty-one, correct?” He waited for my nod. “Yes, and you mentioned on our intake form that you were eighteen when you stopped going to your previous therapist, so it’s understandable for this to feel a bit unnerving.”

“Can you just start asking your questions, please? ”

Dr. Cohen shook his head in amusement and flipped open a small notebook.

“Sure, Lane, I can start asking my questions now. Impatient little thing,” he heartily laughed. “Well, how about we go ahead and get started with a few easy ones to ease you into it? Are you in school?”

“Yes, I’m in my third year. Lately most of my classes have been online. Right now, I just have to be on campus one night a week.”

“That sounds great, Lane. What are you studying?” He beamed.

“I’m an English major. I haven’t quite figured out what I want to do after college though. Which is a bit stressful since I only have a year left before graduation.” I grimaced, trying not to let the anxiety creep in.

“A lot of your classmates are probably feeling the exact same way. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. If you ever want to talk it over, I’m here for you. How’s your social life currently?”

“Dead?” I laughed, which in turn got a chuckle from him. “Well, I talk to some people online. Like through social media and games. I have a friend that lives near me, so we do things together sometimes, but he’s usually pretty busy with his work. I’m sure my parents would hang out with me if I didn’t move two states away for school,” I grinned.

“I’m glad to hear you have a relationship with your parents. Are they pretty supportive of you?”

“Oh, definitely. I’d be living in a box on the side of the road if it weren’t for their help. I’ve been between part-time jobs for a bit now. My parents told me I should focus on my courses though, so they’ve been helping with my rent. Some days I just can’t do anything. I mean, I physically can, but it’s like my body is stuck within my apartment walls by an invisible barrier. My mom’s the one who convinced me to try therapy again. She’s been pretty worried about me.” I shrugged, trying to sound casual about it all.

Dr. Cohen nodded, and then decided to hit me with a real question. “What do you feel are your biggest concerns with your mental health? ”

I had been anticipating this question and sighed before I began. “Well… at first it was just depression. But later on, I was diagnosed with PTSD and panic disorder. Then when I was seventeen, they diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder. I’m on mood stabilizers and Xanax as needed for my panic attacks.”

Not even trying to maintain eye contact now, I started focusing on Dr. Cohen’s carpet. It was plush. My shoes sank down into it a bit.

“I’m sorry that you’ve been dealing with all of that, Lane. Could you try telling me a little bit more about your trauma? I know it’d be difficult, but it’s important for me to know in order to properly help you,” he explained gently. “However, this is our first session, so if you feel you can’t tell me yet, it’s alright.”

“It’s okay. It’s uh… sexual abuse. It’s not happening right now, though. It was when I was a lot younger.” I still couldn’t meet his eyes and instead focused on the wall behind him.

He nodded. “Are you comfortable sharing more about it?”

“It’s alright. It’s not that hard to talk about now since I’m older, but I used to not be able to at all. I’ve repeated it so many times, so it just feels normal. I guess that means the therapy did help.” My smile didn’t reach my eyes. I braced myself before spitting out, “My cousin sexually abused me for a few years.”

Dr. Cohen frowned. He spoke softly as if not to scare me away, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Lane. Is this cousin still in your life?”

“Um… Kind of?” My eyebrows furrowed as I explained, “I see him at family stuff, like holidays or weddings. He hasn’t… Hasn’t hurt me since I was twelve. My parents know some of it, but I never actually told them that it was him.”

“Even if he’s not actively abusing you, I imagine it’s incredibly difficult for you to see him. Especially if you’re hiding his abuse from your family.”

“I don’t think I’m hiding it…” I murmured, “I– I just don’t think they ne ed to know?”

“Hmm,” he hummed. “Is that because you think they would be unsupportive of you because it’s a family member?”

“Oh, no! No, my parents aren’t like that. They’re very supportive. I owe everything to them. I just don’t see the point of telling them now. It’d cause a big mess and I can’t handle that.”

Dr. Cohen frowned again, clicking his tongue.

“Lane, you do not need to force yourself to socialize with your abuser just to maintain family dynamics.” I winced as he continued. “How does he act during these events? Does he go out of his way to make you uncomfortable?”

I shrugged, feeling small. Dr. Cohen leveled his gaze to me, silently encouraging me to answer him.

“I mean… Sometimes he makes comments.” I looked away, hating how suffocating his attention was starting to feel. “I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore…”

“I understand. I’d like to speak more about him still being in your life another time, though. As a compromise, could you tell me about the abuse?” My body tensed up - I was ready to leave at this point. He noticed the movement and tilted his head again, “I know. I know you hate this, but I’m pushing you for a reason.”

I scoffed, remembering that he had literally just told me earlier that we didn’t have to talk about it because it was my first session. I was beginning to feel sick. This felt too forced, too invasive.

“I can’t,” I said, twisting my charm bracelet around and around my wrist.

“But you can. I think you’re much stronger than you give yourself credit for. If you get it out now, you’re going to feel so much relief, I promise,” he coaxed.

I felt like this was an inappropriate way for a therapist to behave. None of the others had ever pushed me this hard. But, maybe that was why I hadn’t been making any progress with them? The deep ache in my chest that I got whenever I tried to talk about Tate was out in full force. Would telling Dr. Cohen help? What if he dropped me as a patient because I wasn’t complying with his methods?

I picked the skin around my nails, feeling like I was two seconds away from passing out. I sucked in a deep breath of air, deciding - for better or worse - to just tell him. At least he’d stop pushing me then.

“Okay,” I whispered, causing his brows to raise. I continued fidgeting as I said, “It began when I was ten. School had just closed for summer break. Back then, my family lived in the same neighborhood as my aunt and uncle. I had a few cousins and we’d play together all of the time. It was me, Tate, and Diana. Tate and I were inseparable. Diana played with us most of the time, but being boys, we sometimes excluded her from our games because she was a girl.”

“That summer, Diana was fifteen and Tate was nineteen. I know that sounds like way too big of an age gap to play together, but I grew up with them, you know? When I was really little, we’d play house. Diana would be the mom, Tate the dad, and I’d be the baby. From what my parents remember, they both seemed to genuinely enjoy playing with me, even though I was so much younger than them. As the years passed, Diana gradually stopped hanging out with Tate and I. She fit in well with the older neighborhood girls. I imagine as she hung out more with them, she stopped wanting to spend all her time with her annoying brother and baby cousin.”

I could feel my tears building behind my eyes. I wanted to finish the story and leave before they escaped.

“Seeing how we all grew up as playmates, the adults didn’t find it that strange that Tate was still frequently playing with me despite our nine year age gap. I obviously didn’t realize it at the time, but what nineteen-year-old guy wants to spend his time catching fireflies and playing videogames with a ten-year-old every single day?” I huffed .

My chest started to burn with emotion, but I took a deep breath and continued on, “Tate… Tate started touching me. Inappropriately. He said it was a fun game he had learnt from his friends at college. I knew it felt wrong, but I couldn’t explain to myself why, so I tried… I tried to play along. I didn’t want to disappoint him. I just let it happen. It started with him rubbing himself against me, but then he moved onto touching me under my clothes. A month into it, he… he raped me. It was in my childhood treehouse.”

I felt a tear track down my face, failing in my quest to keep the tears at bay until after the appointment.

“It’s torn down now, but I’ll never forget the swirly patterns on the wood ceiling or the spider that lived in the top right-hand corner. It’s like the first time is burned into my memory. It hurt so fucking badly. I tore and instead of panicking about my injury, I freaked out about hiding the blood on my underwear from my mom. He– He told me that she’d throw me out for being a faggot. After the first time, he started recording our games and sending the videos to his friends. I was terrified of my parents finding out. I thought that I would be in trouble. I–”

A wounded sound left my mouth. My nails made indents in Dr. Cohen’s couch as I forced myself to continue talking.

“Right before his twenty-second birthday, he moved to another state for a job. My parents had caught on that something was wrong before then, but they never thought it could be something like that. I was fourteen when I finally told the therapist I was seeing at the time about being hurt by someone. I never told anyone that it was Tate. My parents think it was one time, by a mysterious stranger who was passing through town. Some transient man who attacked their child. I just… Why would I tell them now? It’s been so long and sure, I have to deal with Tate’s harassment a few times a year, but that’s doable. But, sometimes I worry that the videos are still out there somewhere.”

Attempting not to throw up, I curled my legs onto the couch and held my knees to my chest with my head down. The room was dead silent for a couple of minutes. I could feel the weight of his stare on me as I tried my best to take in big gulps of air.

“Lane, there is nothing I could say right now that could even begin to express how I feel listening to your story. Thank you for pushing yourself to tell me. My apologies in this situation are pointless, but still - I am so, so sorry, Lane. You don’t have to excuse decisions you made while trying to survive. How were you - a young child - supposed to know what to do in that situation? In no way are you complicit in his abuse. You did not let it happen, sweet boy.”

He took a breath, seemingly trying to calm himself down. Meanwhile, my mind froze at the praise. I thought about asking him why he would call me that, but I was too emotionally and physically exhausted to pose the question. “You are so incredibly strong for being able to tell me all of that.”

Before I knew it, the appointment was over and I was being escorted outside by Dr. Cohen. “Lane, is it okay if I give you a hug? I completely understand if you don’t want that, but I’d like to offer you a small piece of comfort. You did so well. You are doing so well.”

“Yes, I think I would like a hug. Thank you for asking first though,” I murmured, too tired to find an issue with him touching me. His eyes lit up, almost appearing golden from the setting sun’s glow. He smiled as he wrapped his arms around me. Maybe I had just been touch starved for too long, but I swore that Dr. Cohen’s hug felt unparalleled to anything I had felt before. His arms were thick and corded, and I could feel the strength in them as he hugged me. I felt sheltered in his embrace. I rested my forehead on his chest for just a moment, soaking in his warmth. Somehow, he felt like home.

While I was tucked into his chest, Dr. Cohen whispered into my hair, “You are profound.”

As he let me go, he offered me a small smile and a gentle pat on my shoulder. We said our goodbyes and he walked back into the building, leaving me alone with my thoughts on the cement sidewalk.