Journal Entry #5
Therapy Journal
Dear Rhys,
Your office wench is dead to me. She wouldn’t give you my message OR your personal number, even when I clearly stated this was a mental health crisis. I was the crisis. Denying that was a violation of your oath or whatever.
But despite being abandoned by the one man legally required to care about me, I had a very productive day.
I went to a gym class. Like a responsible woman trying to connect with her group therapy nemesis/sexual fantasy.
And then some protein-powered dick-stain called me a tramp while I was mid-consensual public fingering. Which, FYI, is rude.
But did I spiral? (Publicly?) No.
I persevered. I did relationship work. With Benji.
I broke into his house like a loving raccoon and left him a gift. Took a souvenir. He thanked me.
Because some men, unlike Hank the walking restraining order, actually know how to receive love.
And NO, I have not driven by Hank’s apartment. Or his new girlfriend’s yoga studio. Or their hideous matching mailbox with her last name hyphenated. I only know that because of social media, Rhys. I’m healthy.
Also, I handled Chad. Poorly? Maybe. Legally actionable? Not yet. Let’s unpack that tomorrow, time permitting.
Rhys Journal
I don’t have anything personal to say to you, except:
Your receptionist is a gatekeeping demon and I’m filing a grievance.
Anyway. I shopped for our session-date or date-session. Whatever. I bought expensive chocolate and new thigh highs.
You stared at the last pair like they held the answers to your repressed trauma.
Let’s see what these ones do.
See you tomorrow. Wear something that makes you feel powerful. Or edible.
Benji Journal
You confuse the hell out of me.
You said thank you.
No one says thank you. Not after B&E and shirt theft and possibly licking their toothbrush.
And now I want to do it again. Harder. Kinder. Wilder. Whatever you’ll let me.
But also, I think I love you. And that feels big. Too big.
But maybe that’s okay.
Jett Journal
You wanted me. I felt it when you curled your fingers and muttered my name like it hurt to want me.
And then Chad the Cockroach came crawling out of the shadows and ruined everything.
I fixed it. (Kind of.)
Hope you liked your presents. Hope they scared you. Or turned you on. Or both.
Best case scenario? You corner me before group therapy, throw me against a wall, and fuck the common sense out of me.
Worst case? You glare at me across the room with that look like you want to ruin my whole nervous system.
And then we circle each other until one of us snaps.
Spoiler: doesn’t matter which one I’ll enjoy it.