Chapter 1
Caitlyn
"It was the worst thing I've ever done in my life," I say, my hands still trembling just thinking about the other night.
"You said that the last time you went. We knew it would be hard," Dr. Moore says, and I can't help but cringe.
We?
We weren't the ones who had to face those nights.
I was the one who had endured five nights of immersion therapy. Dr. Moore was on vacation that week and the following three weeks. I've wondered more than once if we agreed to my unorthodox therapies taking place while she was gone was purposeful on her part, so she wouldn't have to listen to me bitch about how hard it was going to be.
"I can't do it again," I mutter.
Silence fills the line, and I know she's giving me an opportunity to consider my words, but I've done nothing but think about those nights. Every single moment of it makes my skin crawl.
"It's not going to work," I say confidently. " I tried."
"The defeatist wording you're using—"
"Rhonda," I whine. "Please don't do this right now."
"As your therapist—"
"As a therapist myself, I'm telling you—"
"This was never going to be easy," she interrupts, her tone softening slightly. "And it wasn't going to be fun. You know a cure wasn't going to happen in one trip. Immersion therapy isn't a light switch that can be turned on and off. Tell me one good thing about your experiences, Caitlyn."
"Nothing," I mutter, dropping to the sofa and letting my hand roam down Kiva's back.
The elderly mixed-breed dog grunts her approval, shifting her weight a little so I have better access to her stomach.
"There has to be something," Rhonda says. "One thing, and don't tell me when it was over ."
I pause before my rejection instinct runs my mouth for me. I've wanted to find at least a middle ground with the way my body reacts when I'm touched by others for years. As a therapist, I know that it's natural to reject the changes that would be required for that to happen. I'm only wasting both of our time if I don't actively participate in my own therapy, even though it's a survival skill to find fault in everything that makes me uncomfortable.
"There was one man," I confess. "On the first night."
"His touch didn't bother you as much?" she asks.
"He didn't touch me," I clarify.
"Okay," she says, but I can hear the doubt in her tone. As if she understands that, of course, him not touching me would be a highlight.
But not touching me isn't part of the therapy, and we both know it.
"He asked me if I was there against my will."
"The night was supposed to be spent in silence," Rhonda reminds me .
"I didn't speak to him, and the attendant gave the rules, but not speaking to me wasn't mentioned. I think his asking about my well-being made me slightly more comfortable."
"That's understandable. How about—"
"I don't want to go back. We need to try something else."
"I've suggested hypnotism to get to the bottom of the trauma," she offers.
It isn't the first time she has brought up the option, but the idea of not being in control of my body makes me sick to my stomach as much as thinking about the strangers touching me at the club. Not being in control of my body is why I've never drank or done drugs. The idea of being incapacitated is almost as bad as thinking of someone brushing against me on the street.
It's why I moved to the mountains of Tennessee several years ago. I needed the isolation and the social interactions on my terms. It's why I have a schedule for shopping and avoid the high-traffic areas of Gatlinburg. Everything I do in life is controlled by my fears, and despite my years of therapy, I still haven't gotten to the bottom of why any of this occurs at all.
It might be easier to heal if I could identify what made me this way, but there have been no revelations. I don't have a specific incident from childhood or as a teen or young adult that I can pinpoint might be the cause. I've just always had a very severe aversion to people touching me.
It's made life, friendships, and relationships very difficult. Actually, they've been impossible.
There's a scale of how intolerable touch is for me.
Children don't bother me at all. Their touch doesn't even register as something negative. It's why I chose a career path working with children.
Female friends just make my skin crawl a little.
Male acquaintances make my stomach turn, and a male I don't know even bumping into me by accident has the power to make me literally scream and cry.
The nights I spent at the club, allowing men to touch me, were the hardest thing I've ever had to do. How I managed without turning into a banshee is beyond me, but even having that control doesn't feel like progress.
"We could start over again with the isolated therapy," Dr. Moorse says, breaking the long silence.
"We've already done that," I remind her.
The isolated therapy included one man in the privacy of the controlled setting of Dr. Moore's office. It was rough at first, but then got better over time. We managed to go from simple touches on the arm to more intimate touching. Just when I felt healed, Dr. Moore suggested taking it a step further with the club atmosphere.
Getting tied to a St. Andrew's cross in a sex club was not a first step in therapy. We were hoping it would be one of the last steps. It took me over eighteen months of hard work to get there, and being unable to handle it very well has been like a punch to the gut, leaving me feeling like a failure.
"It's going to take more time," she says again, and I feel like I've heard that a million times by this point in my therapy. "Maybe a break before you go back again?"
I want to argue and tell her that I just completely give up. Being alone forever doesn't seem so bad compared to the alternative, does it?
I know better. Sometimes, I'm so lonely, and Kiva is great, but a dog's companionship isn't the same as human interaction. If anything, I just want to no longer be broken, even if I never find a lasting relationship.
"Was the man who made you slightly more comfortable there more than once? "
"No," I answer, hating that the idea of seeing him a second time is all that made going to participate after that first night even mildly tolerable. After four more nights of him not being there, I figured his attendance was a one-off, and I'd likely never see him again.
It makes me not want to return even more.
"Have you sat with the idea of why he made you feel more comfortable?"
I pull in a deep breath before responding. "This isn't about one person in particular."
"But maybe it is," she counters. "At times, there are other factors than attraction that make one subconsciously aware that someone might be important in their life, Caitlyn."
"He only stands out because he didn't rush to touch me," I counter, remembering how he watched me from across the room before approaching to check on me.
A rush of frustrated air leaves her lips, crackling in the phone. "We could try shock therapy."
I huff a humorless laugh.
"I'll give going back consideration," I say. It's the only thing I can offer right now.
I make no guarantees at this point.
"Grab an appointment for next week on my online scheduler, and we can talk more about it then," she says. "Caitlyn. I'm proud of you for making it all five nights."
The call ends, and I feel a wave of guilt for being glad it's over.
I know more than most how hard therapy is. I also know its healing power, and I know that some traumas can't be completely cured. You never know until someone gets to the root of their issues whether healing will happen. The road to restoring your mental health is always long and arduous.
Knowing all this still doesn't help me gain any more insight into my own healing. I want to avoid it altogether at this point, but I know that's not the smart thing to do .
I place my phone on the coffee table and give Kiva all my attention, using both hands to rub her little belly. She sneezes, something she always does when she's on her back, and it makes me laugh to see her body bow up in preparation.
She's a happy girl, grateful for every touch and belly rub I have to offer.
She wasn't always like this, however.
When I first saw her in the kennel at the animal shelter, the way she was huddled in the corner, shivering when the worker reached in to get her, it made me feel like she was a kindred spirit. I too cringe and curl into myself to avoid the touch of others.
Kiva no longer shies away from my touch. Instead, she begs for it, following me around our little house like a shadow, hoping I'll squat down and give her a little scratch. Although she isn't too keen on being handled by adults, she has loved the children I've worked with.
I wanted to be more like her. She's the reason I started therapy.
She's the reason I want to be what most would consider normal rather than pressing my back to the wall if it looks like someone might brush up against me.
I don't want to continue to be different. It was bad enough in high school and college. Although they may say something else, people aren't too receptive to different people .
I can be very cordial with people. I can carry on a normal conversation. I can discuss my aversion to being touched, and they claim to understand. But then most will turn around and try to test the theory or even go so far as to think that a simple conversation with me equals permission for them to press their palm to my shoulder or hand to my back. Then, they get offended when their touch is shrugged off, or they get yelled at out of instinct when I've just been triggered too hard. It's natural not to like boundaries. Most people hate them, and it takes a very well-rounded person to be okay with others setting boundaries and being cognizant enough to avoid crossing them.
I haven't met many people like that in my life, and I don't know if I ever will. As humans, I think we try to push boundaries all the time, and there aren't many around who will fully respect that others have some that can't be crossed, no matter how close they might be.
I roll my shoulders, trying not to cringe at just the thought of the nights I spent at the club.
Five hours of enduring the most uncomfortable interactions. It's less about sexual freedom for me and more about wanting to have a normal life that includes a sexual aspect.
I'm still not sure that letting strangers touch me in that way is the same as how I might feel if it were someone I truly trusted not to hurt me in any way.
Thinking of trust and companionship shouldn't take my mind full circle back to that one man at the club, but, of course, that's where my mind always goes.
I can't comprehend that my body would somehow know that he might be important to me. Scientifically, that doesn't make any sense.
I don't believe in love at first sight or anything like that, but it is weird that I couldn't take my eyes off him the second I noticed him across the room while others were touching me .
I stand from the sofa, smiling down at Kiva when she gives a little yelp of distaste because I stopped petting her.
"I've got to get ready for work," I explain, earning yet another huff of annoyance from the little dog. "I need to see if Mr. Hart will allow me to bring you for a visit. I think Eli would really like to meet you."