18. Zoey #2
I looked down at my hands again. They were clenched, my nails making little half-moon imprints on my palm.
“She has a gift for making any limit sound cruel. If I don’t answer the phone, I’m abandoning her.
If I don’t fix something fast enough, I’m cold.
If I point out that a crisis was preventable, suddenly I’m harsh and impossible and making her feel like a terrible mother. ”
Saying it out loud made something ugly settle into focus. “Which was efficient, really. I either solved the problem or I had to manage her feelings about the problem, which was somehow more exhausting.”
“Another way to view them,” she continued, “is as a structure that allows healthy relationships to exist at all.”
I frowned.
“That feels optimistic.”
“It’s practical,” she said. “Without boundaries, you eventually burn out or build resentment. When that happens, the relationship collapses anyway.”
That was annoyingly logical.
She made another small note.
“Another belief you mentioned,” she continued, “is that you have to save the day.”
I felt my shoulders tighten slightly.
“That’s not a belief,” I said. “That’s a pattern.”
“Patterns come from beliefs. Right now, it sounds like you believe being open or vulnerable will eventually lead to someone taking advantage of you.”
I didn’t answer.
The silence probably counted as confirmation.
“That belief makes sense given what you’ve experienced,” she said. “But it may not be entirely accurate. Or helpful.”
“People do take advantage of you,” I said.
“Some people do. Others don’t.”
I considered that.
It felt suspicious.
“I think,” I said slowly, “that I learned very early that if I relaxed, something bad would happen. Not dramatic-movie-bad. Utility-shutoff-bad. Unpaid rent bad. Open the fridge and figure it out bad. So now when people say something is handled, my instinct is to assume that means I should probably double-check.”
Dr. Ellie nodded. “Because in your experience, safety was unreliable.”
The words landed hard enough that I looked up.
“Yes,” I said.
She was quiet for a moment. “Was there a specific memory that stands out when you think about that?”
“We got evicted when I was younger,” I said. The sentence came out flat, which felt unfair to the memory considering how much damage it had apparently done. “Not in a dramatic possessions-on-the-lawn way. Just in a landlord-at-the-door, final-notice, this-is-happening way.”
I stared at the wall behind her. The half-moons in my palm were starting to become painful. “I already knew things were bad. I had seen the notices. I had asked about the rent. She kept saying she was handling it.” My mouth tightened. “She wasn’t handling it.”
The room stayed quiet. Calm enough that I could hear the clock on the bookshelf.
“She fell apart,” I said. “I packed.”
I can still see it with annoying clarity. Trash bags. Towels wrapped around dishes. Me taking things off the walls while my mother cried and said she didn’t know what we were going to do.
“I remember being furious with her. I remember feeling guilty for being furious with her. I remember her looking at me like I was the problem for not comforting her fast enough.”
Dr. Ellie’s expression stayed steady. “Do you remember what she said?”
I laughed once under my breath.
“Not every word. Just the general message.” I looked down at the floor. “I was making it worse. I was too hard on her. I always knew how to make her feel terrible.”
The old anger moved through me, sharp and familiar. “Which was impressive, because we were losing our housing and somehow, I still ended up in the role of emotional aggressor.”
Dr. Ellie exhaled slowly through her nose. “That is a tremendous amount for a child to bear.”
“Well,” I said, because apparently even in therapy my instinct was to downplay. “We didn’t die.”
“No,” she said gently. “But survival is not the only measure of harm.”
That shut me up.
“One thing that can be helpful,” she said, “is understanding that the part of you who learned those lessons is still very active.”
I frowned slightly.
“We all carry younger versions of ourselves. And the one in you who had to stay alert that early learned some very powerful rules.”
I looked down at the indentions in my hands. That was somehow worse than if she had said something clinical and impossible to argue with. This sounded usable, which was irritating.
“Such as?” I asked.
“If I don’t handle it, no one will. If I relax, something bad will happen. If I need too much, I become a problem. If someone says they’ve got it, I should probably verify. If I allow someone in, they will use me.”
I looked at her. “That is annoyingly accurate.”
A small smile touched her mouth. “The important thing is that those rules were created by a younger you, who was doing her best with the information she had. You kept yourself safe.”
Something in my chest tightened. “So, what? I’m being haunted by my own childhood?”
“In a sense, yes,” she said, which was rude of her. “But not by weakness. By adaptation. That younger version of you is not trying to ruin your life. She is trying to protect you using very old information.”
That went uncomfortably deep immediately.
“She doesn’t know what you know now,” Dr. Ellie said.
“She doesn’t know you can leave situations that are unhealthy.
She doesn’t know boundaries exist. She doesn’t know that some people can be disappointed without making it your responsibility.
She doesn’t know that not every relationship leads to chaos. ”
I cleared my throat. “So, what am I supposed to do? Inform her the situation has changed?”
“More or less,” Dr. Ellie said. “By recognizing when she’s running the show and reminding her that you are an adult now. You can hold boundaries. You can assess what is actually happening in front of you. You can choose carefully, instead of assuming every discomfort is danger.”
I was quiet for a moment. “That sounds suspiciously close to talking to myself.”
“It is talking to yourself,” she said. “But with more kindness than you may be used to.”
That was offensive on several levels because she was right.
Dr. Ellie tapped her pen on her notepad. “The goal is not to become less discerning. Your caution exists for a reason. The goal is to help the younger, frightened part of you learn that discernment is different from permanent alarm.”
I stared at the rug. “And eventually she’s supposed to believe me?”
“Eventually,” Dr. Ellie said, “she gets evidence. Safe people. Safe boundaries. Repetition is key. You don’t force trust all at once. You build it. Including with yourself.”
Dr. Ellie rested her pen on the notebook.
“One of the goals we’ll work toward,” she said, “is helping you identify safe people.”
“Define safe.”
“People who respect your boundaries. People who don’t require you to solve their lives for them. People who allow you to show vulnerability without punishing you for it. Once you identify those people, you can allow them access to your life at a pace that feels manageable.”
“Access?” I repeated.
“Yes. And vulnerability.”
“That sounds risky.”
“It is.” She smiled slightly. “But it’s also how healthy relationships develop.”
I thought about Pine Hollow. I thought about Bobbi climbing through my balcony window with a backpack full of snacks and social commentary.
And then my brain did something extremely inconvenient. It produced an image of Liam standing in my kitchen, holding a plate of food, and watching me in a way that made it difficult to pretend he didn’t notice everything.
I looked down at the floor.
Dr. Ellie scribbled something on a small card and handed it to me. “For this week, I want you to try two things.”
I took the card.
“First, notice when you feel responsible for solving someone else’s problem. Pause before stepping in. And remember that adult you lives a different life from the version of you trying to protect you.”
“That sounds uncomfortable.”
“It will be.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“Notice people who feel safe.”
I stared at the card for a moment. “And then what?”
“You don’t have to do anything yet,” she said. “Just notice.”
When I stepped back outside, I gazed at the mountains.
Safe people.
My brain immediately tried to reject the concept. Unfortunately, it had also already started making a list.
The first name that showed up made me sigh.
Liam.
Markie watched me from the back of the kitchen chair while I opened the container of seeds.
He had been quiet for several minutes, which meant he was preparing something. Silence from Markie was rarely accidental. It usually meant his brain was assembling an announcement that would arrive with absolute confidence regardless of whether it made sense.
I poured the seeds into his dish and slid it across the counter.
“There,” I said. “Dinner.”
He hopped down immediately and began cracking seeds with serious concentration as I picked up my phone.
Slack notifications had multiplied in the background while I ignored them. A bank alert sat underneath that. Then a calendar reminder about a meeting on Monday that already felt like a personal attack.
And below all of that sat the message I had already read twice earlier in the day.
Liam: Just checking in. How are you?
The night before that, there had been a missed call.
One call.
One text.
No follow-up.
The restraint alone made it harder to ignore.
I set the phone back on the counter and watched Markie crack another seed with methodical efficiency.
He lifted his head and looked at me. “DOG.”
“There is no dog.”
“DOG.”
Frustration built inside me. “There is a man.”
“DOG.”
“That man occasionally turns into a wolf.”
Markie paused, processing that information. He cracked open another seed, then said, “DOG.”
I crossed my arms. “You’re refusing nuance.”
“DOG.”
“Excellent discussion.”
He finished the last seed in the dish and hopped back onto the chair.
I glanced down at my phone again, where the message was still on the screen.