Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Anya
One Week Later
It’s been eight days since Matteo and I talked about the possibility of him coming to the west coast to see me. Eight whole days, one hundred and ninety-two hours, half of which I’ve spent thinking about that conversation.
I’ve been able to hide my wandering mind by keeping up with my routine, mostly. Dad hasn’t noticed anything amiss, and I think it’s likely because I’m not overly stressed. It makes me nervous, thinking about it. But it doesn’t send me into a panic.
I’ve been dreaming about it, actually. Daydreaming a mix of scenarios, playing them out in my head while I lie in bed with my eyes closed to paint vivid pictures behind my lids.
Every time I do, I expect to feel my heart rate skyrocket, or nervous sweat to begin forming in the back of my hairline, but it never does.
I find myself feeling an excited but anticipatory sort of emotion. Like I can’t wait and almost wish it would just happen already. Ripping the Band-Aid off and facing the task head on. But Matteo coming to visit shouldn’t be a task.
It’s frustrating that I can’t figure out what I really think, or what I want.
I’m annoyed with myself that I can’t predict how I would handle the situation.
Which is why I’ve finally decided to speak to someone about it.
To get an outside perspective, and to hear from a person who might know my mind better than I do myself.
“Well,” my therapist, Tiffany, says, clearing her throat shortly and shifting in her seat. “That was a lot of honesty in only a few breaths. Would you like a sip of water before we continue?”
No, I almost yell. Can’t you see that I’m at my wits’ end, waiting for you to solve my problem?
I’d only been in our designated office for three minutes, participating in our usual small talk before I started word vomiting everything. My growing friendship with Matteo, his willingness to come and see me, and my thoughts on the matter. Which are mostly confusion and hesitancy.
“I want to see him,” I admitted minutes ago. “But I don’t know if I can. What if I have an episode? What if I do something embarrassing? What if he hates it here? What if he regrets becoming my friend because I can’t go do anything interesting with him?”
What-if after what-if.
Can I handle it? I asked, hoping she would simply tell me I could.
But even with all the words I sputtered at her, there were many things left unsaid. Questions left unanswered because I wasn’t brave enough to ask them. Not can I handle it, but do I want to be able to handle it?
Because if I can handle hanging out with Matteo, I might be doing a lot better than I thought.
And if I’m doing a lot better, then what’s my excuse not to do everything else I’ve been avoiding for years?
What’s my excuse for not reaching out to old friends?
What’s my excuse for not trying to dance again?
“Yes,” I lie, grabbing my bottle from the side table next to the small couch I always sit in and popping open the lid.
The office where I meet with Tiffany is located in a quiet part of the house.
The room isn’t fully soundproofed, but a white noise machine plays outside of the door anytime we’re in session.
It’s a cozy room, despite being small and windowless.
A comfortable chair for her to sit in, and a two-cushion couch for me.
There’s a couple of plants, and a display of books and therapy tools, but most of our sessions just involve talking.
I watch out of the corner of my eye as she writes something down in her notepad, her fancy pen running over the journal with a professional swish. Her curly caramel-brown hair moves as she does, almost bouncing as she looks back up at me.
“Feeling better?” she asks, watching me set my water bottle back down.
“No,” I admit honestly.
Tiffany has been my therapist for the last two years.
I refused to speak to anyone other than my psychiatrists and recovery doctors for nearly the first whole year after it happened.
But when I was ready, Dad found Tiffany.
A forty-year-old talk psychologist who specializes in teenage trauma, PTSD, and grief.
She was patient with me from day one, never making me talk about anything I wasn’t ready to.
And now, she basically knows it all.
Nodding sympathetically, Tiffany asks, “What are you feeling? Not about the possibility of him visiting, but how are you feeling right now? Do you feel any relief from broaching the topic? I know you said you haven’t spoken to anyone about it yet, that can be daunting.
Do you know if you feel worse now that you’ve let some of that out? ”
I exhale slowly and give myself a moment to think.
She does this a lot, giving me multiple questions and clarifying details.
She says it can help with my OCD symptoms to give me several forms of a question so that rather than overthinking it myself, she over-asks herself.
Sometimes it can be overwhelming, but it usually isn’t.
She’s made it clear that she never expects a perfect response to her inquiries, and that I should reply with whatever answer comes to me the easiest.
“I’m glad I got it out,” I admit, searching inward for a way to explain the feeling. “I don’t know if I feel relief, I think I need a solution to really feel that. But I don’t feel worse. I’m tired. Like I’m fatigued from thinking about it so much.”
“Tired from considering the topic for many hours,” she says, nodding. “And still, you said much of your thinking about it has been positive? What do you think is the part that’s making you feel this fatigue? Being without a solution? Being unsure of your feelings?”
“All of it,” I mumble, picking at my fingers absently. “I don’t understand why this is so difficult. It’s frustrating. I already met him. I talk to him every day. He doesn’t scare me, so why should seeing him in person be so daunting?”
“It’s new,” Tiffany replies simply. “New things have always been a challenge for you. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Anya.”
“It feels like a bad thing,” I argue, scrunching my nose. “It makes me feel like a kid. Like I can’t handle the most basic interactions, and that I shouldn’t struggle so much anymore. I’m getting fed up with needing to take baby steps.”
“Needing more time to adjust doesn’t make you a child,” she softly disagrees. “All people have different comfort zones, even those without immense trauma. You would be surprised by the limitations other people face. I’m sure even Matteo has things that he struggles with.”
I want to say that I find that hard to believe, but I would feel awful if I did and it turned out not to be true. If I diminished anything he might be struggling with without considering that he’s just very good at masking his internal conflicts.
“Maybe,” I sniff, feeling a wave of sadness sweep through me. It crashes into the frustration that I’ve built up and hits me even harder as a result. My lips tremble, and I feel my eyes start to swell with tears. “I’m sick and tired of being this way.”
“Do you want a break?” Tiffany asks, closing her notebook. “Perhaps some fresh air?”
“No,” I croak, my ribs shaking as I hold back a sob. “I want you to fix me. How can I be so much better than I was only a year ago and still feel like I’ll never be normal again?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being upset or frustrated, Anya. That’s as normal as feeling happy and content. I’m so sorry that you’re having a difficult time right now.”
I use the back of my hands to dry a few teardrops, wishing they never fell to begin with. “I just wish I knew what to do.”
“I think you do know what to do,” Tiffany suggests, trying to smile encouragingly.
“But I also think that you may be scared to make progress. Overthinking happens, and it doesn’t make you silly or dramatic or abnormal.
You’re protective of your peace, and now that you’ve found comfort in your routine, it’s difficult to take the next step. ”
“I don’t want to regress,” I agree, swallowing hard.
“That’s what my father is worried about.
He says he’ll take Matteo away if he makes me go back on the progress I’ve made.
What if Matteo comes here and the pressure sends me into some kind of spiral and my father makes it so I can never talk to him or see him again? ”
I think that would feel worse than spiraling, having Matteo ripped away from me as the result of it. It would feel like getting punished for being broken, and part of me hopes my father would realize that. If Matteo does nothing wrong, he shouldn’t be taken away from me.
“Would it help if I told you that I highly doubt your father would react in such a way?” she asks, crossing her legs and propping her hands up on one knee.
“I’ve spoken to him about your new friendship, and he’s agreed that it seems to be good for you.
If Matteo is as good as you describe him, I know your father will see that.
He worries for you, but he wouldn’t rip something away that you care about. ”
“Do you really think so?” I ask, biting my inner cheek.
“I do,” she confirms, her eyes shining with sincerity. “Does that help alleviate some of your concern? Would you be less nervous when you imagine him visiting if you spoke to your father about the possibility of negatively reacting?”
I squeeze my hands together, considering the question.
“Like would I feel better if he agreed to not taking Matteo away if I have a panic attack or regress in some way? Do you think he’d even agree to let us try if I brought that up?
Maybe he wouldn’t let Matteo come at all if he thought I was concerned about my reaction to it. ”