2. Kai #2
My mother taught me that rhythm without ever meaning to.
I learned it by watching her breathe through pain she refused to acknowledge, by seeing her smooth her hair before answering the door and shift her body so the bruises remained hidden beneath the fabric.
I learned it from the way her hands would tremble beneath running water while she kept her voice gentle enough to prevent the temperature in the room from changing, even when blood dried beneath the cuff of her blouse.
When I was young, I hated her for that silence.
Not for letting herself be hurt, because even as a kid I could distinguish the power difference between her and my old man.
I hated her because she stayed quiet, because children are cruel before they mature enough to understand helplessness.
They believe survival should look louder, braver, cleaner, and that if somebody is hurting badly enough, and if you tell someone, they will surely help fix it.
I know better now. I know silence is sometimes all people have left, and I know some wounds cut so deeply into a person that they stop looking like wounds altogether. They become habits, rituals, and careful ways of moving through the world without drawing attention to the places that still hurt.
There are times when sessions like Daniel's push the old anger that burns beneath my skin to the surface, reminding me that control is not something a person conquers once and never thinks about again. It’s a choice that has to be made repeatedly, especially on the days when letting go would feel easier.
Those are the days when control matters most.
I exhale once more then get up and turn toward my desk.
Every therapist develops some kind of ritual between patients.
Some make coffee. Some stare out the window until their next appointment arrives.
Mine has always been paperwork, not because I particularly enjoy reducing an hour of someone's life to clinical language, but because it forces me to leave one patient behind before another walks through the door.
And because memory has a habit of softening the sharp edges. Behavior doesn't.
I wake my laptop, open Daniel's file, and begin documenting the session while every hesitation, every shift in posture, every carefully chosen word is still fresh enough that I don't have to reconstruct it later.
Externalization of responsibility.
Limited emotional insight.
Continued minimization of abusive behavior.
I stop for a second before typing the final recommendation.
Continue challenging cognitive distortions surrounding accountability. Explore impact of emotional dysregulation on a minor child.
Clinical language has a remarkable way of making devastation sound almost ordinary. A father teaches his daughter to fear the sound of breaking glass, and somewhere along the way it becomes emotional dysregulation affecting a minor.
I save the note before I have time to dwell on it at the same time a soft knock sounds against my office door, followed almost immediately by the handle turning.
"You're getting predictable."
I don't bother looking up. "So are you."
"You forgot lunch again."
That gets my attention. I glance at the paper bag she sets on my desk before looking back at her.
"I was going to eat."
"Eventually."
"That was the plan."
"It usually is."
Mara folds her arms, studying me with the same expression she has perfected over the last six years, somewhere between office manager, older sister, and disappointed parent.
Most people assume she works for me. Technically, they're right.
In reality, she spends at least half of every workday making sure I remember to function like a normal human being.
"I'm capable of feeding myself."
"I'm sure you are.” She all but snorts, adjusting her big round glasses and pushing a strand of wild curly hair behind her ear.
"I am."
She nods toward the untouched bag. "Then prove it."
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself.
"There it is," she says immediately.
"What?"
"You smiled."
"I tolerated you."
"Barely."
"Exactly."
She laughs quietly, shaking her head.
Her son Connor once told me I only have two facial expressions — grumpy and slightly less grumpy. I've never fully recovered from that observation or the fact that a ten year old psychoanalyzed me like he’s the therapist and I’m the patient.
"He's asking if you're still coming over Friday."
"I told him I would."
"I know. He wanted me to remind you anyway."
"I've never forgotten."
"No," she says. "You just work until midnight and then act surprised when everyone else has gone to bed."
"I like my odds."
"He likes beating you at Mario Kart."
"He cheats."
"He's ten."
"He cheats creatively."
"I'll let him know you said that."
"You absolutely will."
She reaches for the tablet tucked beneath her arm, then pauses.
"Oh."
I raise an eyebrow.
"I almost forgot why I came in here.”
Somehow I highly doubt that but play along.
"I was beginning to think this was a wellness check."
"It was both."
She slides the tablet across my desk. "I've got a new intake."
I unlocked it.
"Anything I should know?"
"Nothing urgent.” The answer comes too quickly.
I've known Mara long enough to recognize when she's choosing her words carefully.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning..." She exhales quietly. "I think she's waited a long time before asking for help."
I lower my eyes to the screen.
Julia Hayes.
Thirty-four.
Referral source: Online search.
My attention moves lower.
Reason for seeking treatment: “I don't think I can keep pretending I'm fine.”
The sentence holds my attention longer than it should. Not because it's unusual but because it isn’t. I've read different versions of those same words hundreds of times.
I'm okay.
I'm managing.
Everything's fine.
People build entire lives around those sentences until one day they wake up too exhausted to keep carrying them.
"You noticed it too.” Mara’s voice drops to a whisper. She already knows.
"Did she write this herself?"
She nods. "I called this morning and it went straight to voicemail.
About twenty minutes later her friend called me back and said she'd pass the message along.
Ms. Hayes returned the call herself a little while later and confirmed we could coordinate appointments through her friend if she didn't answer. "
I continue reading.
Previous therapy.
Complicated grief.
Recent panic attack.
No current medication.
No active suicidal ideation.
Then my eyes stop again.
Father deceased by suicide after being reported missing for 15 days.
Date of death: patient's birthday, 5 years ago.
My thumb stills against the edge of the tablet.
Life has a way of being unnecessarily cruel sometimes. This feels like one of those times.
"Can we get her in this week?"
Mara gives me a look that says she's already three steps ahead.
"I offered her Thursday's cancellation before I walked in here."
"She took it?"
"She called back within two minutes."
I nod once. People who spend months convincing themselves they're fine don't usually answer that quickly unless pretending has finally become harder than telling the truth.
"Forward me the rest of her intake."
"It's already in your inbox."
I look up.
She’s smiling, pleased with herself.
"You were going to ask."
"I was."
"I know."
I shake my head. "I really need to stop underestimating you."
"Good luck with that."
A knock sounds at the door before I have a chance to answer.
Mrs. Pritchard stands in the hallway wearing the same lavender cardigan she has worn to almost every session for the last four months, her purse tucked beneath one arm and a paperback novel clutched against her chest.
Mara steps toward the door of my office and closes them, leaving a confused Mrs. Pritchard in the waiting room.
"I'll see you after five."
"If I survive."
"You'll survive."
"I was talking about you."
She laughs as she exits and closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with the file still open on my screen.
I don't think I can keep pretending I'm fine.
The sentence lingers in my mind long after Mrs. Pritchard enters and settles onto the couch across the room.
At the time, I mistook it for professional curiosity. Two days later, Julia Hayes would walk into my office and prove exactly how wrong I am.