The Other Side of Me
Chapter 10
"Dr. Hale is ready for you," the woman at the front desk said.
My heart sped.
We'd barely entered the bright room. We had yet to take a seat in one of the square chairs lining the wall, nor had I checked in, but it was already time for me to meet the doctor. I flashed a look at Edward, assuming I would have had at least a few minutes to work up my nerve, and frightened that I hadn't. He pressed his hand to my back. I took the few paces to the only door beside the front desk, then turned. His eyes were there for me, a mix of concern and comfort in them.
"Go on," he said.
"What are you going to do?"
He patted his backpack. "I brought my sketchbook. I'll draw a picture for you." He smiled.
I rotated the handle, heard the click, felt the door ease open without a sound, but I couldn't push it farther. I turned to Edward again.
"I love you," he whispered. "I'll be right here." He kissed my cheek, opened the door for me, and I stepped through. He closed the door behind me and I spun around, reaching for the handle.
"Isabella Swan?"
I dropped my arm to my side. I was closed in, no turning back. I faced the doctor. Beside her huge mahogany desk, she stood wearing a light gray pencil skirt that seemed molded around her hips and legs, as if she'd been sewn into the fabric. Her loose blouse was tucked into her skirt, revealing a narrow waist. Her figure was long and lean, and her blond hair was pulled back into a tight, low ponytail. I don't know what I'd expected, but what I hadn't expected was for her to be so young, or look like she should be on a runway instead of in an office on the twenty-second floor of a skyscraper.
She walked toward me, her lips spreading into a warm, closed smile, as she held out her hand and I shook it.
"I'm Rosalie Hale." She put her other hand on top, enclosing mine in hers. "Have a seat." She opened her hand, gesturing toward one of the round-back chairs facing her desk.
I waited for Dr. Hale to sit first, a large, uncovered window behind her. She looked like a framed photograph—her hands folded on the desk, her face kind and welcoming—appearing for a moment more like an advertisement for rape survivor therapy than the reality of it.
Her office had walls the same taupe color as the waiting area, but it was made even brighter by that window. The only thing on the wall to my left was one large piece of art centered on it. I didn't take the time to look at it. In the corner was a second door. I did take a moment to indulge my curiosity with what was on the other side.
All the furniture matched the dark mahogany desk. Floor-to-ceiling book shelves lined the entire wall to my right. Both hardbound and soft cover books filled many of the shelves, but not all of them. Some held pretty statues or knick-knacks, framed photos, and on one, all alone, sat a crystal vase, sparkling in the light of the sun. A knot of peach and yellow roses stood tall from the mouth of the vase. Something in me wanted to go over and smell them, but I remained in my chair.
Dr. Hale asked me really strange questions first: how my day was going, if I was keeping cool in the heat, and how I liked New York as opposed to Washington. So far, she was nothing I'd expected. I'd imagined she would quickly break the ice with, "So, you were violated, let's talk about that." It seemed as though she was avoiding the subject more than anything. I frowned and broke the ice myself.
"Well, I love New York, I love my boyfriend, but in Washington, I was never raped." I swallowed. My palms began to sweat and I rubbed them against my jeans.
She stared at me with wide, amber eyes. Was she surprised? Didn't she have my file? There was an open folder in front of her. I leaned over to see if it had my name on it.
"Okay, you want to start with the attack?"
But I didn't. I clammed up. It was my turn to stare. A potted plant rested at the edge of her desk, full with variegated leaves of green and burgundy, some long and spidery, cascading over the sides. I leaned forward and touched a leaf. It was paper thin and velvety. Light green outlined the burgundy center, filled unevenly like careless paint splotches. The plant reminded me of myself. I was no longer one solid color. I was fresh and green for the better moments and deep burgundy for the darkest moments. I was variegated like the leaves, and matching in delicacy. Plucking a leaf from its stem, I slid it between my fingers; this piece from the plant that was me. I've been separated from myself too, I wanted to tell it, and just as easily.
"Miss Swan?"
I looked up, absentmindedly folding the leaf, and tucking it into my pocket. "How do you like New York?" I asked.
She smiled another gentle, closed-mouth smile. "You knew your attacker?"
"I thought he was a friend of mine." I heard my own voice crack and bit my lip, shifting in my chair. It was plush and molded easily enough to my body, but still I couldn't get comfortable.
"A close friend?"
I nodded, my lips folded inside my mouth. One of my best friends, I thought, but couldn't voice it. I looked behind Dr. Hale, out the window—remembered my old sheer, spirit-like curtain. I could still see the way it had moved so gracefully in the wind that day.
"Go ahead," she said. "It's a great view."
I walked to her window. The bottom of it came to my knees and the top of it towered over me. I wondered what she saw that made her think this was a great view. All I saw were buildings and way down there, too many cars. They were snails on the street because of all the traffic. The tiny pedestrians glided faster than the cars.
"You should see the views where I'm from," I said. "Just replace the buildings with hills and trees, and the cars with ferns and grass... oh, and the sun with rain."
"Sounds breathtaking." She joined me at the window and pointed. "If you peek to the far right, you can see a few of the tips of trees in Central Park."
I tilted my head, stretched my eyes. It seemed like an awful lot of work just to see tips of trees.
On my way back to my seat, I paused to smell a peach rose in the vase. I was filled with its scent before ever taking a sniff. The fragrance was so clean and strong that if I bathed in its petals, it would have left my whole body smelling just like that rose.
"Why am I drawn to windows whenever I think about James?" I took my seat.
"I think you know the answer to that." She sat behind her desk again. "You feel trapped by your thoughts. Claustrophobic in a sense. A window, or the outside in general, is the opposite of how you're feeling; it represents how you want to feel."
"Free."
She nodded.
"I'm glad you didn't figure I wanted to jump."
"Is that something you've thought about?"
"Jumping out a window?"
"Suicide. In general."
"I'm not suicidal. That was sarcasm, a joke on psychoanalysis/ A bad one."
"Miss Swan." She leaned forward on her forearms. "Some women in your position do contemplate suicide, so if it's something you've thought about, even for a second, I'd like to know."
"I don't think about it. The only time I sort of thought about dying was right after it happened. I was in Edward's lap, he had just called the police, and I thought of what a relief it would be if it were just me and Edward, out of the world. Gone, but together, you know? I don't know if that's death or what, but I wanted Edward there with me, that's all I know."
"Escape," she said.
"Escape," I repeated. "There's something I think about all the time."
"That's why you seek the window." She motioned to it.
I nodded. I knew that even if the window represented escape in my mind that it wasn't true. Even if I went through it to the outside, I still wouldn't be free. I'd still be me. I sat quiet, waiting for her to say something, ask me something. My fingers were pressing together, firm and stiff. When I looked at them, it appeared they could snap backwards if I pressed any harder. I folded them and unfolded them. It bothered me that I couldn't keep my hands still, so I sat on them.
"We don't have to talk about your attack yet," she said. "We can if you want to, of course, but we don't have to. I want you to feel comfortable. I know you've had reservations regarding therapy. We can talk about what you're feeling, or unrelated concerns. Do you want to talk about James?"
I shook my head.
"Why don't you tell me about your boyfriend?"
That I could do. I told her all about Edward. How we met, how we fell in love, how he had been my rock through everything and was the reason why I had any of my remaining sanity at all. She stopped me.
"That's interesting."
"What is?"
"You view Edward as your strength and your sanity? You don't think that any of that strength or sensibility is yours, that it comes from you?"
I thought about what she was implying, that Edward may be my rock, but my strength and my sanity came from somewhere inside me. I wondered if that could be true. Logically, it had to be.
"Edward and I," she said, "we can help get you where you're going, help lead you in the right direction, but without you, the engine, so to speak, there is no forward movement. Understand?"
I nodded. Was I strong? Was that strength I had always perceived as Edward's really mine? Had Edward been right that day he looked at me through the mirror and told me how strong I was? I smiled.
"Beautiful," she said. "Do you do that often? Smile?"
"I don't know. Edward says I do. I don't really think about it."
"Think about it," she said. "I don't mean any smile, though. I mean when you smile for yourself. Whenever you give yourself a smile, like you just did, I want you to think about it. Recognize it. Everyone needs to smile for herself once in a while. We're so busy giving them away, we need to keep a few for ourselves. Don't you think?"
"Smile therapy?"
She laughed. "I guess you could label it that if you want. What I want it to do for you is show you that your trauma, though it is a part of you, it doesn't define you. It's separate from who you are. You have many unrelated happenings and feelings, throughout every day. I just want you to acknowledge them. I'd like you to keep a journal. Write your thoughts and feelings in it. Note your smiles and what might have brought them on. You may share your journal with me, or keep it private. Will you do that?"
"I've always kept a journal," I said. "Ever since I learned to write. But lately I haven't been able to write at all. My mind can't focus anymore."
"Try," she said. "Don't pressure yourself about what you write, just write any thought or feeling that comes to mind at any point of the day. It doesn't even matter if all you get out is one word. Sometimes, one word, the right word, is all it takes."
I nodded, believing I could do that. "Dr. Hale, one of the reasons I'm here… um, why I decided to see you is that I want to have sex with my boyfriend, and I can't seem to do it without seeing James." I don't know if it was because she was young or because she was so personable, but somehow I was able to ask her about sex without feeling embarrassed or insecure. "And for a while, I didn't even think I would ever be able to just be with Edward. Even though I love him, I felt like he knew too much and saw too much. But, it's not fair to him. He's been frozen for so long, waiting for me. I don't want to make him wait any longer."
She looked at me for a second, then up at the ceiling. She seemed to really be thinking about what she was going to say. Her eyes came back to me.
"You say you see James? Is it a memory you have or do you actually see him, a manifestation of him, as if he's actually in the room?"
"It depends. Both happen at different times. When Edward and I tried, I had memories of James, but when I closed my eyes, it was like James was there. I could see him and feel him, sometimes smell him, even hear him." I felt a shudder run though me. "I know he isn't there, but that doesn't change the fact that I see him."
"I understand. Does this happen only during times of intimacy?"
"No. It often happens whenever I close my eyes, but especially during intimacy, and sometimes around strangers, men just trying to be friendly. I had to leave in the middle of doing my laundry because I was alone with a man and had a flashback. I couldn't calm myself and - and I ran out."
"Did the man look like James?"
I shook my head. I barely remembered what he looked like. All I could recall was that he had brown hair that covered his collar, until he turned into James.
"Wait," I said. "He wore a polo shirt. James used to wear those a lot. Almost everyday. Does that mean anything?"
She took a moment to answer me. A few blinks later, she nodded. "I believe it's possible."
Strange that after all this talk of James, nothing had made me picture him until Dr. Hale had made that comment. I saw his face and heard him talking, something he used to say a lot: Anything's possible, he would say, but the real question is: is it probable?
Dr. Hale's voice snapped me back to her office. "During a flashback, are you aware of your actual surroundings?"
"Not at first. Sometimes I have to talk to myself in my head and remind myself." Saying that out loud, hearing how strange it must sound to an outsider, shocked me. Who has to remind herself about where she is and who she's with?
"How long do the visions last? Do you lose time?"
"They last a few seconds, I guess. Sometimes a few minutes. Not too long. I don't lose hours or anything." I frowned at her, unsure of what she was getting at.
She wrote something down, and that made it worse. The least she could do was tell me what she was writing. Either she read my mind or the look on my face was plain.
"I'm only taking notes, Miss Swan. I have a lot of patients, and need to remember what's said. All right? I'm not making a diagnosis."
"Bella," I said. "I just asked you about sex with my boyfriend; I think you can call me Bella."
"Okay, Bella, I want to discuss the visions some more, but first I want to address something else you said. You seem more concerned for Edward's well-being than your own. Do you believe you will be able to repair your relationship with Edward without working on you first?" She pointed at me. "You think this situation is unfair to him. Tell me, what is fair about rape?"
I flinched, then stared at her without answering. We both knew the answers to her questions. This seemed to be a pattern with her, implying her ideas in question form. I was starting to get irritated. Why couldn't she just say what she meant? I shifted in my seat.
"Here's the thing, Miss Swan—Bella—you came to see me because you want to move forward with Edward. Forward movement is healthy, but you need a foundation. You need something underneath you, something sturdy to hold you up." She palmed the desk—that was sturdy. Then she put her hand on her heart. "Something that comes from within you. Edward can be supportive of you, but you cannot rely solely on him to hold you up because as soon as he's gone, lets go, you'll fall. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"You're saying I came here for the wrong reason. That I need to be here for me."
"Yes, but what drove you here isn't important. The important thing is that you're here, now. We're going to work on you. Your healing. The relationship and intimacy will follow in time."
She did that thing where she just looked at me again. I waited for her to do something girlie, like pull her ponytail through her hand or something, but her hands didn't move. They rested naturally and easily on her desk. I'd never met anyone so calm.
"Now, as far as your visions of James… it's quite common, after a traumatic experience like yours, for people to experience what is called dissociation or a dissociative state. Are you familiar with that term?"
"What, like schizophrenia?"
"No, that's not what I mean. I mean that, for a little while, you forget where you are or who you're with exactly. You're back at the scene with your attacker, or maybe even imagining a new scene with your attacker, a sort of dream state. Dissociation often has a trigger and can last for longer periods of time. It seems you are experiencing it in short spurts. I want you to tell me if these episodes lengthen in time."
I nodded. My eyes teared and I looked away. It was one thing to experience it. It was another thing to have someone explain my feelings almost to a tee, and then give it a name. Dissociative state. I didn't like that term. It seemed crazy. Dissociation… Was that curable? I wondered.
She wrote something down in her notes again. Was she writing that word? Isabella Swan is dissociative. I felt a tear leak down my face, but caught it before Dr. Hale looked up from her notes.
"Bella, it's important for you to understand that dissociation, to an extent, occurs within everyone. It happens regularly, often through daydreaming or getting lost in a good book. The difference for you is that it's occurring because of a traumatic event. Like I said, there are triggers," she said, "and we'll have to determine what yours are. Journaling can help with that. For now, I'm going to teach you a technique to help you through such occurrences. I must tell you that your flashbacks are going to continue, especially when triggered, but you can gain some control over them." She came out from behind her desk, sat in the chair next to me, took my shaky hand, and looked into my eyes. My tear-filled eyes.
"You told me that you're aware these are just visions. That James is not literally going to appear in that moment. Am I right?"
"Yes."
"Okay, here's what I want you to do next time. I know sometimes you can feel it when it's about to happen. Maybe it seems to get dark or you feel a bit like you're leaving your body."
I nodded. "It does get dark, and I get really hot, and my heart starts pounding."
"When it starts, if your eyes are closed, I want you to open them, look at your surroundings. See your surroundings. Look at everything. Really focus. Use all your senses." She squeezed my hand with both of hers, and then she let go and put her hands on the seat of her chair. "Feel the chair you're sitting in or the floor you're standing on. Is it hard, soft, cold, warm? What color are the walls? What do you smell? See the person you're with. Concentrate on his or her face, features, voice. This will help keep you in the present or bring you back. When you're with Edward intimately, do the same thing. Feel the bed beneath you, the sheets, the pillow if there is one. Feel Edward. If you start to feel James, you focus on Edward's touch. I don't doubt that Edward will be gentle with you, but you be sure of it. He must be the opposite of James so you can keep your focus. Look at him.
"Bella, from what you've told me, I can almost guarantee that you will see James when you attempt sex, especially the first time. And I suggest you talk to Edward about this ahead of time. If you fall into a dissociative state, he must stop. Do you understand?"
I tried to nod, but I might not have moved at all.
"You may panic, but try these techniques we've talked about. You can control your panic, slow it down, rein it in." She made fists with her hands and pulled them against her body, as if capturing my panic.
"Please practice this in your daily life before you attempt it with sex. Don't rush it. Make sure this works for you. We don't want your troubles to escalate, do we?"
I couldn't look at her. My eyes were on her hands in her lap, resting there sort of curved, limp, unaffected. She believed that I could control my panic, even stop it before it happened. She had me believing it. My eyes were puddles filling up—pools. If I looked at her, she could probably dive right in.
"Bella, do you believe that I can help you?"
My tears spilled over. I covered my face.
"It's okay to cry." She set a tissue box on my lap because I was sobbing now, shoulders slumped, head down, hidden, my hands still on my face. She brought her hand to my shaking shoulder. "What are these tears? Are you sad? Happy? Scared? Relieved?"
I couldn't answer her because I was choking on my own breath. But then I nodded because pretty much every word she mentioned, I was feeling. But she'd left out one word, the most powerful word, and that word was "hope."
Sometimes, one word, the right word, is all it takes, Dr. Hale had said. Hope was that word. It would be the first word I'd write in my journal.
As I sat there sobbing, I recalled my dream of being trapped in a fire. I'd deserted myself in that dream. But in life, I hadn't. In life, with Edward's and Dr. Hale's guidance, I'd opened my window.
"Is there something I can do for you, Bella?"
"Ed-Edward." I pointed at the door. She went out and when the door closed again, it was just Edward. He took a seat silently beside me, removed the tissue box from my lap, and gathered me into his arms, where I shook us both with my sobs. I grabbed at the shoulders of his shirt, fisted the material in my hands, pulling him as tight as I could get him.
"Bella." His low voice brought about more sobs, more tears. "Bella. Bella. Are you all right?"
When I didn't answer, he just sat there with me, holding me, letting me cry it all out, kissing my cheek every so often, a hand down my hair. He was being my rock again, and I was searching for my strength. I tried Dr. Hale's technique for the first time. I concentrated on Edward, his legs beneath me, the muscles in his thighs. I felt his arms around me, alternately squeezing me close and moving a hand, stroking up and down my back, up and down, and then squeezing me tight again. His hand drifted up my back, and I felt his fingers on the skin of my neck, and then they slipped slightly beneath the top of my shirt, the backs of them rubbing slowly side to side at the base of my neck. I concentrated on his breath against my throat, warm. I opened my eyes, let go of his shirt I'd had such a tight hold of, wiped my tears, and saw the mahogany bookshelf on the other side of Edward, the vase of peach and yellow roses. I remembered their strong scent. Resting my hands on Edward's shoulders, I pulled back and looked at him, his green eyes. He cupped my face and I leaned against his palm, felt his his fingertips, the warmth of his blood. He saw me focusing on his eyes and smiled.
"Bella?"
I kissed the lips that were smiling at me. "I'm going to be okay," I whispered.
He kissed my face, my old, wet tears. No more were coming. "Yeah," he said. "You will be."
When Dr. Hale returned to her office, she shook my hand again and offered to see me two days a week. We settled on Tuesdays at three and Thursdays at one.
"May I take a rose?" I asked, pointing toward her vase.
"I'll buy you all the roses you want," Edward said, seemingly confused by my request. I wondered what he'd think of the leaf I had in my pocket. The one I'd later take out, unfold, and lay on the nightstand by the bed.
"I want one of those," I said.
Dr. Hale pulled two from the vase, one peach and one yellow. The others fell to the sides, filling in the new, open space.
"Here," she said, handing one to me and one to Edward. "They're being replaced tomorrow anyway."
At home, I drew myself a bath and plucked the rose petals one by one, dropping them into the water. I bathed in the peach and yellow rose petals, welcoming their scent into my skin, just as I'd welcomed hope into my heart.