***THE ONLY THING THAT'S DIFFERENT ABOUT THIS CHAPTER ARE THE 2 LETTERS THAT CHRISTIAN AND ANA WROTE TO EACH OTHER AND THE SCENARIO THAT CHRISTIAN'S DOCTOR DESCRIBED TO HIM. I DIDN'T CHANGE ANYTHING ELSE THAT WOULD CHANGE THE STORY OR ITS OUTCOME***
June 2019
Christian
"Christian, are you going to continue staring out the window or are you going to answer the question?"
"What I want to know is why you are even asking me that question. That was four fucking years ago and I don't see its relevance in fixing my fucked-up head," I snap at Dr. Antoni Klein.
Klein has been the same live in psychologist that I have been assigned each time I have spent a goddamn fortune on for a four-month stay at The Kusnacht Practice. My first treatment here was a waste of time, my second stay brought about several miraculous breakthroughs, but two years after that second long-term stay, here I am, not where I want to be.
I have tread through a lot of shit and I am nowhere near as fucked-up as I once was, but there is still a whisper in the back of my mind. It is a nagging feeling that I can't pinpoint or seem to erase. So once again, I am overlooking Zurich, Switzerland, while I peel away more layers of what, why, and who I am. Maybe this third stay at The Kusnacht Practice will be my lucky charm.
The fact that I am Christian Grey means that I can pay more to stay at the world's most luxurious and expensive rehabilitation center in the world, in order to ensure that I am the only patient here. Even though the center only treats six patients at a time, I still can't afford to be seen in some rehab, even if the chances are low since I am six-thousand miles from Seattle.
Dr. Klein softly chuckles at me and I turn to him in annoyance.
"Christian, I have been asking you that same question for the past four years and you have never answered it. You have been here for sixty-one days, and if you do not work through this, I assure you that your third visit here will not be your last," he says. "If you refuse to answer the question, then tell me what you are afraid of that prevents you from doing so?"
I scoff at him and shake my head. Unbelievable.
"Afraid? I'm afraid of anything, Dr. Klein. That should be abundantly clear to you. After all, as my one and only psychologist who has ever resided with me here, you should already know that about me. I just don't see the point in discussing her."
"The point is that if you never verbalize these conflicted feelings that you still carry around over your ex-wife, then you will never get past them and lose the guilt you have when it comes to her. As you said, it has been four years, Christian. Tell me, how long after your divorce did your anger and supposed hatred for Anastasia morph into guilt?"
I momentarily close my eyes and exhale. I know that what the good doctor is saying is the truth, but I just don't want to go back there or admit to him or to myself, anything about Anastasia.
"Fuck, I can't pinpoint the exact day I started to feel this way," I murmur. "It was sometime after I got her letter."
"That leads us back to my question. What was it that you were feeling? Was it regret or remorse? Did those strange feelings as you call them, come in waves or did they continually linger in your mind?"
"In the beginning, it was nothing more than sporadic guilt," I softly say.
"What did you feel guilty about? You have always said that you never truly loved her—"
"No, I have always said that I did love her when our relationship began. Once I returned to my previous lifestyle, I came to believe that loving her was nothing more than a passing phase or some shit. Fuck, Klein! Even after I started trolling BDSM clubs, I still cared for Anastasia's well-being, and took care of her!"
Dr. Klein is shaking his head and waving a hand at me as he quietly chuckles. If I hadn't already learned how to control my explosive temper, he would be feeling my wrath. I sigh deeply.
"You cared for her well-being, Christian? Are you lying to me or to yourself? You did not care for Anastasia's well-being. And how many times have you been told that you should refer to your previous lifestyle as alternative sexual relationships that you were addicted to? You were addicted to them the same way an alcoholic is addicted to booze, Christian. You admitted that addiction during your stay here two years ago, and I suggested you to stop calling it a 'lifestyle'. When you say that, or more importantly tell yourself that, you give into those thoughts of shame, that your so-called lifestyle has to remain a secret. When you told your family about these contracted sexual relationships, who believed it was an addiction and suggested that you seek treatment for it? Not to mention getting help for your lifelong posttraumatic stress due to your early childhood?"
"My mother did," I reply petulantly.
"When your mother told you she believed you were addicted to this behavior and found this treatment facility, did you scoff at her?"
"Dr. Klein, you already know that answer."
Rolling his eyes at me, Klein continues in his thick German accent. I walk back to the window looking down at Lake Zurich.
"Are you a sex addict, Christian? Is the sex you are addicted to BDSM?" he asks.
"Yes," I acquiesce.
"Then own that addiction and stop referring to it as a 'lifestyle'. You learned to believe that term from the older Dominatrix who sexually molested you, and introduced you to BDSM in a cruel and unhealthy way. The way you have described your version of BDSM is nothing close to the way an actual BDSM relationship is. You admit that you are a sex addict and you were sexually abused. You also admit that you contracted women for BDSM relationships that were cruel and sadistic. So, stop trying to worm your way out your own admissions and saying that you lived a lifestyle. For God's sake, Christian, we treated and got through your PTSD during your last visit to our lovely establishment, and you no longer suffer from night terrors. You have been celibate for two years now, which I think is unhealthy, although we will discuss that later. I think it is time to stop kicking yourself in the ass over being brainwashed by your mother's much older friend, one who led you into believing you needed to live a secret sexual lifestyle," he says emphatically. "Has your acceptance of being a sex addict left you? Is that why you are here again?"
"No."
"Are you only going to reply in monosyllables?"
"Jesus Christ! Yes, I know that I am a sex addict and that I was addicted to BDSM relationships that bordered on torture! What else can I say other than that, Dr. Klein?" I ask, pulling my hair. "If I had reverted to believing otherwise, I wouldn't pay tremendous amounts of money Skyping you from Seattle several times a damn week, now would I?"
"That's precisely what you needed to say, Christian. Before we get back to the topic of your former wife, I want you to explain why you have not been with a woman in two years. Surely, that is a tremendous strain on a man who has been sexually active since the age of fifteen. Care to explain that to me?"
Dr. Klein has joined me at the window, and we both gaze at the beauty of Zurich. Just looking at the surroundings makes me feel calm and peaceful. They take away all of the stress of GEH and allow me to relax knowing that Ros is handling everything as it should be. Other than my family, Ros is the only one who knows the truth about me. I do not answer Dr. Klein right away.
"You know that it was hard in the beginning, although I eventually adapted. The reason I have not been with a woman comes down to the fact that I don't even know how to approach one properly. I do not have the faintest clue how to behave on a date with a woman. and the idea of beginning a normal sexual relationship with one befuddles me." I sigh deeply and shrug my shoulders. "Even my brother, the self-proclaimed expert on women can't give me any pointers."
Remembering how many women Elliot has tried to set me up with makes me laugh out loud. Dr. Klein turns and stares at me as if I am an animal at the zoo. He obviously does not find any amusement in how funny I find that Christian Grey has gone without pussy for two years.
"There you go again, Christian. The term is not a normal sexual relationship. It is a healthy sexual relationship. It is a loving sexual experience if it is full of intimacy with someone who you have fallen in love with and are in a committed relationship with. I didn't ask why you haven't had a relationship, I simply asked you why you haven't had sex in two years," he replies. "The way to approach a woman is usually engaging in a conversation with one, and whenever a woman tries to start one with you, you shouldn't run for the hills like you do. You approached Anastasia."
I shake my head and look down at my bare feet, attempting to block that unpleasant memory.
"No, Dr. Klein. I stalked Anastasia," I retort bitterly.
"True. But you did eventually have to make that first move and ask her out on a date, Christian."
"No, that is not what happened. I wore her down while I was around the world on a business trip. The so-called first move you are referring to was either during a Skype session or in one of my incessant emails. You cannot twist that fact to sound like I approached my former wife with a bouquet of roses and asked her out for dinner. I had _"
"Yes, yes, Christian," he interjects. You had an ulterior, devious, and underhanded agenda. That is how you described your first interactions with Anastasia. I have never disagreed with your description of how you went about approaching her; I know what your true intentions were. Humor me and remind me why you pursued your former wife. Explain why you deviated from your previous modus operandi when it came to Anastasia. You chose to pursue her, Christian. Tell me why," he asks, irritating the fuck out of me because I hate to be interrupted.
"How many times have we discussed this topic?" I snap at him.
"Well, Mr. Grey, I am sure we couldn't count the number of times we have discussed this over the past years. I am sure that every one of those times has obviously not helped since you are here again, and your unresolved issues concerning your ex-wife are no doubt the reason why."
I feel a sudden and familiar feeling of anger rising within me. I close my eyes and count to twenty. After I remember how to distance myself from my old best friend, anger, I open my eyes and turn to Dr. Klein.
"Which question do you want me to answer first, Dr. Klein? Why was Anastasia the first and only woman that I ever pursued, or what feelings propelled their way through the anger I had toward her?" I pull my hair. "Which question is the most important in our process of finally fixing Christian Grey?" I cannot keep the sarcasm out of my rising voice.
"They both are, and answer whichever one first," Klein replies, looking at me as though he is challenging me.
"Mother fucker. I pursued her because she was not into BDSM, and I thought that I could make her my sub. The goddamn feelings that I felt after our divorce was remorse. You now have your answers, Dr. Klein. I felt remorse once the rage abated, and along the way, that remorse became a sticky source of guilt that I can't rid myself of. Does that satisfy you?" My booming voice echoes throughout the room.
"No, it doesn't and I think we should both sit down. I have looked at this same view for the past twelve years, and frankly, I'm sick of it," Klein says, making his way to one of the chairs.
Irritated by his incessant arguments over everything that I have told him, I sigh and make my way to a chair directly in front of him. Klein lifts an eyebrow as if he is waiting for my response, which I don't offer him. He blows out an exasperated breath.
"Remorse for what exactly?"
"Hell, I don't fucking know!" I yell in frustration.
"Bullshit, Christian. You know that I have read and studied the notes of your psychiatrist in Seattle. Not to mention I'm privy to those with the psychiatrist here. I'm going to be blunt when I say that I have no idea why you're here. You continue to make tremendous progress overcoming the adversities that you have had in your life under the treatment of Dr. Franklin in Seattle. I'm also aware that you discuss your guilt over Anastasia quite frequently with both Dr. Franklin and our psychiatrist, Dr. Meyer." Klein is rubbing his chin. He appears to be in deep thought. "Explain to me why your biweekly sessions with Dr. Franklin have not been enough for you to have already worked through this? Why did you feel the need to return here and drop another million or so to go over the same shit that you have in Seattle?" Dr. Klein's words are matter of fact, although, I don't mistake the genuine curiosity within them.
"Fine. I thought that since I continue to feel this way despite my sessions with Franklin, that if I returned here I could finally resolve this shit. After all, it was the treatment I received here two years ago that finally broke down the barriers that I had built around myself. I felt like being here again could finally rid me of whatever that's been holding me back," I reply quietly. "I don't know or understand what the fuck is wrong with me. Why can't I force myself into a norm...a healthy relationship, and why I am plagued with goddamn guilt whenever I hear the name Anastasia? You know that I no longer harbor anger or resentment toward her, and in fact, I am grateful for her and all of the things that she has done...for me. She didn't have to do any of those things, and I fucking well don't deserve any of them after the hell I put her through. Obviously, that's why I feel guilty. Anastasia has done a lot of selfless things when it comes to me, and has never accepted anything from me in return."
I inhale deeply. Spitting my feelings out is exhausting.
"And you doubt that she'll ever drop the anvil hanging over your head? Although, I believe that deep down you don't believe she will out you. You know what Anastasia is really like, and that despite what you did to her, you feel that she will never follow through with her threats. You were, and still are, acutely aware of the person that your former wife is. While you initially wanted to ruin her life, you very quickly became remorseful, and it was not just because of those feelings of anger and blame you harbored over her. You developed an alien and quite uncomfortable feeling of regret, and it was born because you realized what you had done to Anastasia. You also realized the regret over what you could have had with her did you not? You reflected on that very early, albeit short, period with your former wife, and saw what you could have had, and what your life could have been like. Please, don't insult me any longer by telling me you never loved that woman, or that you believe it was a passing fancy." Klein stops, looking me directly in my eyes. "Am I wrong, Christian? he asks in a low voice.
As they have for the past four years, Klein's opinions punch me in the gut and wind me. I lay my head back on the chair and stare at the ceiling. Did I love Anastasia, and then give into my addiction of BDSM? How could I have ever truly loved the woman and behaved in such an abhorrent way that nearly broke her? It's not hard for me to close my eyes and vividly recall the period of time that I struggled adapting to a healthy and loving relationship with Anastasia. Her presence did bring light into my life and gave me hope to love and be loved. Anastasia also brought me back into the arms of my family, although I did not believe I deserved the love they showered me with. Fuck! I wasted so much time when it came to my family and spent so many years stuck in a rut of deception. I threw away nearly twenty years of my life. Twenty years that I can never get back. However, was the light Anastasia introduced me to, and how she was the catalyst that led me back to my family, enough to mean that I loved her? Did I fucking love her? I can close my eyes and remember looking into her crystal blues and running my fingers through her soft wavy hair. Anastasia's body was always soft as silk, and she always smelled like heaven. I can still hear her beautiful laugh and remember how her body reacted to my touch. How lovely her face was whenever she would come. Anastasia was witty, funny, gorgeous, and most of all, she was kind and loving.
How did I ever deny feeling this?
Raising my head, I find Dr. Klein looking at me blandly. I pinch the bridge of my nose before I answer him. However, if this is what is keeping me from moving on and losing the guilt that I carry, I need to say the words out loud.
"No. No, Dr. Klein, you are not wrong. I did love her," I softly say.
He does not say anything for what seems like hours, and my own words are finally registering within my heart. It feels like a ton of weight has been lifted off of my shoulder. It feels like a ton of weight has been placed on my heart.
"Well, that is a major step, Christian. You have recognized it and verbalized it. I believe it's pointless for us to beat our chests and offer up the reasons behind your mistreatment of Anastasia. We already know the when, the what, and the why. Did you ever feel guilt during your marriage due to how you treated her?"
"I have often thought that my anger towards Anastasia when I returned to BDSM could have been guilt. I suppose guilt can manifest into rage. Dr. Franklin suggested that I think about why I wanted to hurt Anastasia. Turn it over and see if it was guilt. My guilt and shame over what I was doing behind my wife's back, along with how I was essentially abusing her," I tell him quietly. "I was once in Gstaad on a business trip, and I hadn't laid eyes on Anastasia for a week. Perhaps longer. She emailed me one night, and instead of replying to her, I chose to email the submissive I had instead. Unforgivable." I shake my head knowing how disgusting that was. How embarrassing it is to admit.
"Hmmm…interesting. Do you recall why you chose your submissive over your wife? Do you remember if the two of you were fighting?" he asks, sounding genuinely intrigued.
We've never discussed this.
"Fuck, Dr. Klein. That was nearly five years ago. I know that I was drowning my fucking feelings in alcohol and I got shit faced. I paced my hotel suite justifying my actions. I knew that I was becoming more reckless with my behavior and that Anastasia was going to find out the truth sooner rather than later." I have to stop. I try my best to recall that night. "I remember excusing the fucked-up shit that I was doing because I had given her Grey Publishing, and that publishing was her passion. I told myself that Grey Publishing would be enough to get her through the pain she'd go through once she found out about me," I whisper. "I spent a lot of time justifying my actions and making excuses to even have the heart to look at Anastasia. Jesus, I always blamed her for not saving me, but I realized what a goddamn hypocrite I really was. I never tried to save myself."
"You felt like a hypocrite during your marriage, " Dr. Klein asks, staring at me with a raised eyebrow.
I shake my head.
"No. My parents pointed it out to me. It was shortly after I told my family everything and my mom and dad took me to my dad's study. They were hurt and angry, although they were both desperate to help me. It was not long after my divorce from Anastasia was final, that mom was already in touch with this treatment facility. I had no qualms about confessing all of my sins, and when my parents asked me why I had hurt Anastasia so much, I told them the same reason that I had been telling myself. The same reasons I gave Anastasia," I say softly. "My father had to control himself from kicking my ass, and my mom collapsed into tears and wept for an entire week. Nevertheless, they both told me that they loved me even though I was full of shit. Dad called me a complete hypocrite and had basically killed their beloved daughter-in-law. I knew that they were right, and it was not long until my family convinced me to check myself into this place. We know that didn't help me out in the least."
Dr. Klein laughs loudly, pissing me off and I find myself glaring at him. I would call him a fucker, but I like him and he has actually helped me these past two years.
"Christian, this place does not help people. The people who come here help themselves. When I first met you in November of 2015, I remember a skeptical and hostile man who thought this facility and the treatment you received here was full of shit. I think that the only reason that you stayed the full four months was to escape the relentless publicity going on back in Seattle. After all, what happened when you went back to Seattle?" Klein asks. "You returned to your multi-million-dollar penthouse, stopped all contact with your family for a year, and succumbed to your addiction to BDSM once more."
"Well, fuck. Thanks for making a guy feel good about himself, doc," I say laughing bitterly.
"You are welcome. I would be remiss if I did not hold up a mirror for you to look into, Christian. Just don't blame your first go around at this treatment facility as the reason you chose to return to Seattle and went back to a seedy BDSM club. Whether you fail or succeed after you leave a rehabilitation center is all on you, and the choices that you make. Obviously, you left here and made poor decisions. We successfully worked through all of that shit those two years ago. Yet here you are again. Living in a plush house overlooking Lake Zurich, you have your own personal gourmet chef, a butler, and a live-in psychologist. You have all of those things in Seattle, along with intense therapy with a psychiatrist, you are in frequent contact with me, and yet you are sitting in a chair across from me and we are discussing a subject that you can't seem to let go of," he says. "Your trouble is loss, Christian, and is compounded with guilt. Immediately after that disastrous meeting concerning your divorce, your only friend. . . and do not bullshit me and say that Jason Taylor was just an employee and not your friend. Hours after you left that meeting, he resigned to leave you and Seattle behind. You lost that iron curtain you hid behind when it came to your family, and you finally told them the truth. However, most of all, you lost Anastasia. You lied to her that day when she asked you why you never divorced her if you hated her, Christian. We both know that you hated yourself, and it was easier to blame it on your wife. Face it, Christian. You were a coward."
I have been called many things in my life, although I do not ever recall a time when anyone dared to call me a coward. I feel my face flush and move to the edge of the chair. I am furious. How dare this smarmy, little German call me a fucking coward? Nearly finding myself raising my hand to point a finger in his face, I remember that goddamn calming technique he taught me years ago. Once again, I close my eyes and count to twenty. Opening them, I find Klein smirking at me. He is amused at my anger, and what pisses me off is the fact he is right, and the fucker knows it.
It was easier to blame Anastasia, and I was too afraid to look at myself and admit it.
"I won't deny that Dr. Klein, although I do not like being called a coward. Maybe I was reticent or stubborn, but not a coward," I reply.
"What do you American's say? "Whatever floats your boat?" he laughs. "Let's call it whatever you want, Christian. I am curious about your friend Jason Taylor. Remind me what became of him? Have you spoken to one another in these past years?"
"Taylor started his own security company on the East coast. From what I have heard, he has done quite well for himself and we have not spoken since 2015. You may remember that I offered him the money to start up his business, and he told me to fuck off. I understood his actions. He had been angry with me for years and then hated my existence when his marriage ended. However, I will say that I don't understand why he knew my behavior was so abhorrent and still covered for me. I never had an opportunity to ask him, and it will always be something that will bother me. Jason was my friend. I cared very deeply for Gail, his ex-wife, and I live with the guilt that I am the reason that their marriage ended. Once Jason left, I could barely look at the rest of my security team who were also conspirators when it came to hiding the truth from Anastasia. I fired all of them. I have a new group of guys now, and even did some house cleaning at GEH."
"Did ridding these people from your life assuage all of that remorse you initially felt?"
"Fuck no. I sent them all of them packing the day I met with Anastasia and her lawyers because I was enraged at what I considered their incompetence," I reply stone-faced.
"So, you punished your employees who were simply doing your bidding in order to keep their jobs? That hardly seems fair, Christian. After your rage left you, did you rehire any of them or make any sort of amends to them?"
"Klein, they were more than compensated and I consider that my amends. To be honest, they were incompetent. They were supposed to be the best of the best, and my former wife had them running in circles for months. It was fucking pathetic."
Dr. Klein shakes his head at me and laughs humorlessly. He is once again staring at me as if I am an animal at a zoo.
"Do you know what the word empathy means, Christian?" he asks, cocking his head to the right.
"Of fucking course, I do. What in the hell does that bit of ancient history matter now? They received excellent references and benefits for a year. Doesn't that count as empathy?" I snap.
"No, it does not. You're missing my point. Why did they deserve to be fired when they were simply doing what you had been paying them to do? You fired them because you refused to take responsibility for your own actions. It was more convenient for you to blame others. Why didn't you share this with me the very first time you came to Kusnacht?"
"What in the fuck does that shit have to do with anything? Am I paying you a fortune to stay in this rehab for the top one percent, and hear a lecture over who I fired?" I say, raising my voice again.
"Christian, I am disappointed to hear what you are telling me. You really do not see how inappropriate your actions were. I thought that by now you would have the ability to reflect on your past mistakes and realize the truth concerning them. You need to sit for a long time and contemplate on that situation, Christian. Admit that you were the one in the wrong. Did you ever consider that your former employees had a sense of morals, or a conscience, and knew what you were doing to your ex-wife was wrong? Can you honestly tell me that you can reflect on firing those individuals and not see that you were wrong?" Klein's brow is furrowed, and I believe that I've made him angry.
"Dr. Klein, I can honestly say that I have never thought about it. Well, I did think about, although it was because of all the bullshit I went through replacing the staff that I canned." I laugh humorlessly.
He shakes his head.
"You need to think about your actions that day. This is something that you should have resolved and owned during your treatment years ago when you finally opened yourself up to healing. Is there anything else that you have never mentioned that I should be aware of? Are there other situations from that time that you still feel self-righteous or angry about? If so, you had better let it out now, or start making plans for your fourth visit here."
All I can do is stare at him while I flip through each memory in my mind. I was wrong when I stormed into GEH and fired Welch, Andrea, Olivia, and Barney. Shit, Klein is right. They were only following the orders of a cheating asshole because they needed their jobs. If anything, I should have gotten off the elevator that day and apologized to all of them for making them do things that were terrible and amoral. Fuck, Klein was also correct when he said that they could have felt awful knowing what they had to do and then facing Anastasia. Fuck. I have spent the past two years thinking that since I was a changed man, that I had made peace with everyone in my life, and the only remaining baggage was this rock called Anastasia.
I watch as Dr. Klein removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. He is not trying to hide his irritation. I feel like complete shit.
"Let us move on." He sighs. "How did you feel this past week when your family arrived and participated in your therapy sessions?"
"I felt good and thought that it was productive. I know that my siblings don't understand why I came back here and are concerned that I have returned to my former ways. I explained to my parents while I felt the need to return here and they understood and supported my decision."
"I see. Why didn't you confide in your siblings and tell them the reason that you came back? You said they are concerned about your well-being. What is keeping you from telling them the truth?"
"I hate to admit this, but if they were aware of my unresolved feelings concerning Anastasia, I know they might slip up and tell my sister-in-law, Kate. As you know, Kate is Anastasia's best friend."
"Ah, I see. How is your relationship with your sister-in-law these days? Is she still openly hostile toward you and avoiding you at all costs?"
"Kate's hostility has lessened over the years. She no longer refuses to be in my presence. Our non-existent relationship consists of not speaking to one another and completely ignoring each other. Elliot and the rest of my family understand Kate's feelings toward me and have never tried to talk to her or convince her to behave any differently. They all sympathize with her since they know Kate has loved Anastasia longer than they have. They know how fiercely loyal she is when it comes to Anastasia. In the beginning, they knew that I was the one in the wrong and loved me despite that. They also understood why Kate disliked me for it, and still loved her as well," I reply softly.
"Do you not trust your siblings with the truth because you feel that Kate would inform Anastasia of your unresolved feelings about her?"
I run my hands over my face and groan. Can I get out of this uncomfortable spotlight? I wait a few minutes before I collect my thoughts and answer.
"Absolutely. I believe that I could trust Elliot not to run his mouth to Kate since it would be a sibling secret, although I know Mia would inadvertently run her mouth to everyone that she knows."
"Well, where in the world does your sister-in-law think that you are? I remember that you told me she was once a journalist with a keen mind and knows you were in treatment for four months on two separate occasions. Do you really believe that she has forgotten that and will suspect the truth? What do you think she'll believe when you reappear four months from now? Won't this confirm her suspicions?"
"Dr. Klein, I honestly do not give a fuck what Katherine Grey thinks about m," I bite back.
"But you do care what Anastasia will think once her best friend confirms what they will be assuming," he replies smirking.
Rubbing my chin, my eyes land on the flower arrangement sitting on the coffee table, and I turn Klein's words over in my mind. They are the same questions that my psychiatrist back in Seattle asks me, and just like now, I never have a concrete answer. I know that I would like to think that Anastasia knows that I have changed and I am no longer the cruel man that I was to her. I would like to believe that she knows how much I appreciate what she has done for me, and that is probably the reason that I did change. Oh, fuck. The fact that I want her to know how I have changed, and how much I appreciate shit, is all about my feelings. When I think about Anastasia, and hope she finds out shit about me and wanting her to know about me and the changes in my life, I now see that is a fucking selfish way of making me feel better about myself.
The fucking truth of the matter is that I don't want her to know that I am here and believe that I have returned to the same scumbag I was when we were married. Mother fucker. This is my usual selfish way of thinking. Me, me, me. What about her, her, her? Why should I even still give a fuck what Anastasia thinks about me in the first place? God only knows that it is still probably awful, and her opinion of me will never change.
I admit this is all selfish, but I want to know how Anastasia has changed. I need to know how she is doing and what she thinks about. Jesus. I want the guilt I feel over what I did to her to leave the inside of my head. I don't want to overhear my mother and sister in the kitchen discussing the lunch they had with her the previous day, and then feel nauseous. I want to stop looking at Charles, the new head of my security and personal CPO, and think that if I had not have been a sick fuck, that would still be Jason Taylor, and he would be driving me to the house on the Sound. I don't want to eat Mrs. Spencer's Mac and cheese; I want to eat Gail's. I am tired of hearing my PA brag about her kids, and show their goddamn pictures to everyone and remember how vicious I was to Anastasia over having children. I denied her every time that she pleaded with me about starting a family.
I want to stop driving past playgrounds and seeing brunette little girls that could have…
"Christian. Christian, did I lose you, or was your prolonged silence a way to avoid what I said?"
"I wasn't avoiding the question. I was lost in my own thoughts. My reply to that question is that maybe it's a good thing that people don't always admit how they feel," I say shrugging.
"My reply to that is that its complete bullshit, and you damn well know better."
Klein stares at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Isn't this session nearing an end, Dr. Klein? After all, it's our last one of the day, and today's last family session exhausted me. It's late and I'm tired," I say. "We can pick this up tomorrow, along with a ton of more fucked up shit. I'm calling it a night."
Dr. Klein tilts his head to the right and observes me for a moment. I recognize that he's not finished with me, although what he asks nearly knocks me out of my chair.
"Do you still carry Anastasia's letter in your wallet?"
Silence surrounds us. I hear the blood rushing between my ears. I stare at him dubiously.
"Yes," I reluctantly reply.
"Your homework for tonight is to pull that letter out and read it. Then you are finally going to do what I have been telling you to do for years; you're going to write a letter to her. You don't have to give it to Anastasia. However, I do want you to give it to me. I'm sure Dr. Meyer and your psychiatrist in Seattle will want to read it." He stops, gauging my reaction. I keep my face impassive. Since she will never see it, that is unless you want her to, hold nothing back. Be honest and open about your feelings. Perhaps this letter will help us rid your guilt. Bare yourself as you do with your journal entries, Christian. You have held onto that letter for years, and there's a reason why. If you want closure, then writing this letter is taking the first step toward it."
"Why in the hell do you believe that writing such a letter will help me find this closure you refer to?" I say in a rushed breath.
"Do you really want to know the answer to that?" Klein asks me.
"I would not have asked you otherwise."
"In the past few years, you've attended events knowing your ex-wife was going to be there. But you knew ahead of time and prepared yourself for possibly coming face to face with her. You put up your protective shield and hid behind that mask of impassivity you wear so well. Mark my words, though. A day will come when you won't know you're going to run into Anastasia. That protective shield won't surround you and you'll have no way to avoid her. Maybe it will be in months; maybe it will happen in years. While you're waiting at a crosswalk when you spot her across the street and she's waiting at the very same crosswalk. After you recover from the shock, you'll squint, and tell yourself it isn't really her. But you'll know better. It will be as if she's alone in a spotlight and you'll notice everything about her. The purse on her shoulder is one that you don't recognize, and it will hit you that the reason you've never seen it is that she's no longer a part of your life. You're going to catch the glint of a delicate gold necklace around her neck and see that she's slightly bobbing her head. It's then that you'll notice the earbuds, and wonder what song she's listening to. A song that you can't hear. A song you'll never hear. You'll find yourself wondering if she still sings in the shower, and remember how she hummed along to songs on the radio in the car. You'll stare at her face and feel her smile on your lips, and her fingers in your hair. When that green man flashes, she is going to see you, and you'll watch as her eyes widen, and she'll look as startled as you feel. Even if either of you dared to speak to the other, there isn't going to be any time to do so. You're both going to hurriedly cross the street and rapidly become face to face." Klein stops, looking at me with his head tilted subtly to the right.
"She may offer you a small uncomfortable grin and perhaps you'll give her an awkward wave. Once you're within inches of her, you'll catch the scent of her. She wears the same perfume as she did when you were together. You'll be able to see her hair looks different; layers frame her face now. She may murmur a 'hello' and you'll see how mature she looks, not like the woman you had married. On the other hand, she might completely ignore you. Or maybe it'll been so long that she's forgotten your face and simply doesn't notice you. Your face will crinkle from confusion, wondering how she could have forgotten you so easily, because by God, you've remembered her. Once she's passed you by, you won't be able to stop yourself from turning around to watch her. Your eyes will follow her every move and you'll hope that she turns around for one last glance at you. She won't. A lump will form in the back of your throat, and your chest will feel heavy and hollow at the same time. You won't understand why. Random thoughts are going to quickly run through your head all at once. You'll picture her on a blanket watching the stars and walking along a lonely stretch of beach. You'll stare at her back until she's disappeared into the crowd, and that's when her words will fill your mind; you'll hear her voice telling you she loves you. It will be the very last time that she did. Then, it will be at that exact moment when you are going to desperately wish you could say it back to her, and you'll be struck by the regret that you will never be able to."
As Klein speaks, I feel like I am choking. Standing, I rub my face with both of my hands, and try to wipe away the visual he has put in my head. I try to keep the nausea that I'm suddenly feel at bay. I have often pictured a day like that happening and it always leaves me reeling. What makes it even harder to hear is that I wonder about those things already. What Anastasia thinks and feels. How much has she changed? I turn my back to him, running a hand through my hair and nod.
"I understand, Klein. I'm going to head to my room and write the damn letter. You'll have it in the morning." I can barely speak as I swallow the knot in my throat.
Dr. Klein does not answer me as I head down the hall to my bedroom. Once inside, I open the top drawer of a desk where I keep my wallet. Tucked inside is a well worn, heavy, and cream-colored envelope addressed to me in Anastasia's handwriting. I do not read the letter very much because it leaves me feeling like a gutted fish. I've never understood why I have carried it in my wallet after all of these years. I gaze at her handwriting and the way that she wrote Christian for a few seconds, before I carefully remove the letter from the envelope. Like the envelope, it has been folded and unfolded so many times that it is well worn, and I am very gentle as I open it because I am terrified that I will tear it. I always stare at the letter before actually reading her words. I take in her former monogram at the top of the stationary and sometimes run my finger across its slightly raised lettering. As always, I have to prepare myself before I begin to read it, and exhale deeply.
December 2, 2016
Christian,
I can picture your bewildered expression as to why I wrote this a year ago and I am sending it to you now. I don't even have the answer to that question. I do vividly remember writing it though. It was in the middle of the night, and I was thinking about Carla, because sleep eluded me. All I could think about was a Crystal Gayle song that had been one of Carla's favorite songs. Isn't it weird how our minds work and we can recall irrelevant details like that? Anyway, I was in my safe last night, and found this and decided to send it your way. I'm not sure if the concierge at Escala will give it to your security, although I thought it wouldn't hurt to try. Regardless if you are reading this, or it is a wad in your trash can - here is a letter that I wrote to you once upon a time.
Ana
November 8, 2015
Dear Christian,
If you are actually reading this, I know you're annoyed by the ink smears from my Paper Mate pen. I know how much you hated me buying packs of three-dollar pens at random Walgreens while you wrote with a hundred-dollar pen. Really? How . . . you.
Here I am, wide awake in the middle of the night; it's typical. Sleep has eluded me for months now, and I spend my nights scribbling my thoughts and feelings in a journal. Tonight is different, although I'm not quite sure why. Tonight, I'm sitting behind my little white desk writing a letter to you. One that I doubt I'll never send. I know it would be pointless to do so because I know that you don't care to know how I feel or how I am. How your betrayals tore me into pieces that floated away on the wind. I really believe that after you, Hell will be easy.
Right now, I'm compelled to watch my feelings evolve into words. I don't care if you were to read this or tear it into pieces, I just need to release these painful emotions, confused thoughts, and my personal truth. No, it's not fair that I'm wide awake at 2 AM thinking of you, and I've no doubt you haven't given me a second thought. Regardless, I have to write about all of these thoughts going around in my mind. I'm desperate to read them to see if I can piece myself back together, because I'm beginning to fear that I'm searching for something that's been erased. I've been erased.
There was a time that I felt I could tell you anything and believed that you knew me better than anyone. Perhaps you did, and that's how you were able to take advantage of me; my heart and blind trust. I always shared my deepest secrets with you, the secrets that I'd never told another soul. I trusted you with my secrets and my feelings. Not only did you break that trust, you broke me along the way. Now you're a stranger who knows all of my secrets. You always were a stranger, weren't you? I don't believe you've ever even met yourself. All it took was an afternoon to flip the switch and allow me to meet the stranger who I had believed was my husband.
I needed you more than I ever told you, and I know I told you a lot. I believed you loved me, so I never thought I had to pretend to be someone else when we were together. I. Believed. You. Loved. Me. God, how did I get that so wrong? Was I that stupid, or are you just an expert in putting on a front? Let me scratch that question out; you aren't an expert, you're a master. Literally and figuratively.
You'd think that I should be beyond the pain you brought upon me by now, and yes, it doesn't hurt as it did before. But, you see, it still hurts. It hurts more than I admit. My soul has been devastated, but I'm still imagining the pillow in my arms is you, and I'm terrified that I will always love the false image I had of you. At this moment, if I'd lived dozens of lies, my favorite would be the lie I lived with you.
I practice smiling in the mirror, and laugh at the stupid jokes Kate and Elliot tell me, so they'll believe that I'm a wound beginning to heal, although that's a joke within itself. You are my open wound, and I want nothing more to heal. I pray for it. I've cried for it to stop hurting. I sob and hug pillows at night, and wonder if you've taken the best of me. I never believed people when they said how every nerve in your body screams after your heart's been broken until it was my heart. Until it was me sprawled across my cold tiled bathroom floor, with mascara running into my mouth while I gasped for air, crying. Keening.
Looking back, I can't pinpoint what it was that made me love you. And I'll always be clueless as to what I did to make you hate me like you do. I remember the beginning and compare it to what you did, and it never makes any sense. Why did you put me on the roller coaster that's your life without ever asking me if I liked roller coasters? I don't understand. I don't know where to begin to understand. I do know you'll never tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear again, and that knowledge feels like a sharp blade to my heart; I suck in a piercing sting of air. I imagine that's what a painful death must feel like, so don't ever say you've never killed anyone, Christian Grey, because you killed me.
I loved you, and I still do. But now I see that falling in love with you was stepping on a bear trap. I wish I would have known it back then, but I didn't. Alas, I fell. I should have realized why you continuously hurt me, why you shut down every time that I needed you and told me you couldn't handle my emotions. How you would scream and curse me. Lied about where you were going and when you would be home. That all caused me to feel like dirt wedged in the sole of a tennis shoe. I said nothing. I think I refused to acknowledge the obvious because one of the hardest things we do in life is to let go of what we think is real. And I thought our marriage was real.
The worst day of my life was when I uncovered the truth and saw who you really are; I finally saw that towering iron fence that separated us. That fence had been masquerading as your love for me; you used it to masquerade yourself, and our marriage. You were the consummate manipulator, and no one knew it. Well, not until I found out, and began to manipulate the manipulator. Ironic.
I was consumed, overwhelmed with grief, angry at being so stupid, and overflowing with sadness. I couldn't comprehend that you took my love, trust, and gentleness, and used them against me. My life had been a lie – you played me. You took our marriage and played it like it was a game. A game that I lost, and one I wasn't even aware that I was playing. You didn't have the right to toss my world around due to your messy and undying mysteries. You can't say that you took me for granted because you didn't love me at all, my life meant nothing to you. I was irrelevant, an afterthought, a nuisance. But you, you were my everything.
Last night, I managed to get a few hours of sleep, and I dreamt about us. The us we could have been – the us I thought we were. In my dream, we were sitting in that swing in our backyard, the one that was deep in the meadow overlooking the Sound. We sat in comfortable silence, holding hands. The sun was setting; the sky was full of deep oranges and burning reds. It still shone a beautiful light on you-you, not on me. You told me how wonderful it felt just to sit beside me, and you gave me a glorious smile. You looked young, so young and happy. Relief had your face glowing, as someone looks when they've finally found something they've been searching for their entire life. You whispered that it was me. That you'd been searching forever for me.
The wind softly blew my hair, and your thumb gently stroked my hand. It was what I always wanted for us, and I'd never felt as happy as I did in that one moment. That calm stillness was what I had longed for you to feel – peace. I always wanted you to find peace within yourself. We kept our fingers tangled, and my head was leaning on your shoulder when you kissed the top of my head. I relaxed against you, and slowly closed my eyes because I trusted that when I opened them, you'd still be there.
I jolted awake, confused. The only light was coming from the crack in my bathroom door, and that's when reality once again slapped me in the face. It left its bitter taste in my mouth and an ache in my throat. My chest felt as if it would break open from the pain within it, pain that's cumbersome, and I don't believe I can take for much longer. It's the same way I feel when I'm randomly struck with the realization that you're gone and always will be. It's a nightmare that I can't seem to escape – to know that you don't love me. To know you never did. To know that you aren't capable of loving a woman.
I don't want the life I have. It's empty; everything is cavernous and cold. I want to be wrapped in warm arms that will hold onto me so hard that I'll lose my breath. I want a misplaced and breathless mouth that searches for my lips and misses their aim by a mile. I want a love that messes up my hair, not my mind. I only want a simple love where vows are a never-ending truth. They're a promise, – not words a man carelessly spits out of his mouth. I want to dance barefoot in the wet grass, underneath a brilliant moonlight, and live a wonderfully boring existence, full of love and faithfulness. I want to fall asleep to fingers in my hair, giggling softly, and chasing a child who looks just like their father – the man that I love. The man who looked me in my eyes and pledged his love and life to. A man who vowed to protect me until his dying breath.
I wanted that dream to be our reality. I wanted that life with you. I wanted that child to look like you. I wanted nothing more than to look at our child and see your eyes staring back at me.
That was it. That was all I ever dreamt of, and the only thing I wanted.
I'm still searching for these words I'm scribbling on this paper to make sense. I'm searching for the place where your kisses will no longer linger, the time your voice whispering in my ear won't be an echo in my head any longer. God forbid if you've left your fingerprints to rest on my skin – skin I'll have to shave off, for you have to leave me.
I haven't forgiven you, but I know that I will. I'll never allow you back into my life, though. I may love you, but I'm painfully aware that you're toxic.
I also know that despite you never wanted me, I'll always carry a tiny part of you within my heart, in a secret place where a part of you will always be a part of me, whether you want to be there or not.
Ana
I have read Anastasia's letter many times and it never fails to twist my spine into a pretzel. This time is different though. Her words feel different, and I can actually feel the devastation that she did as she wrote them. I have an overpowering need to throw up, but I manage to place the letter on the desk carefully, before running to the toilet and emptying out the contents of my stomach. I continue to dry heave for several minutes and then lay on the cool bathroom floor. I am not sure if reading that letter affected me differently due to my conversation with Dr. Klein or not. My fucked-up feelings and thoughts confound me, and as I attempt to logically figure this shit out, I feel tears running into my mouth. Stunned and embarrassed despite being alone, I throw my right arm across my eyes, and feel the weight of the world drop on top of me. I have not cried in so long that I do not even remember the last time I did. Suddenly, my tears become sobs that I cannot stop or control. They shake my body violently and I don't understand why. Did that fucking letter light a fuse to an unknown feeling? Am I crying for Anastasia's pain that is heartbreak on a piece of stationary? Jesus fucking Christ! Are these tears about me, for being fucked-up, and selfish? Is this because I ruined so many years of my life, along with an innocent young woman, and countless others.
I finally manage to drag myself over to the sink and brush my teeth. I do not look at myself in the mirror since I do not want to see a crying little bitch staring back at me. Dragging my ass to the desk, I take a long look at Anastasia's letter, and carefully place it inside its envelope and back into my wallet. I grab the journal they give every patient, and smile at the irony of having to use a cheap pen as Anastasia wrote about in her letter. Gazing at the blank pages, I have no idea how to start a letter to my former wife. How does one honestly communicate with someone they have never honestly communicated with? Fuck, I am Christian Grey, the wealthiest man in Washington State and the eleventh richest man in the goddamn world. I think that I can piece together a fucking letter. Fuck that. I'm just a man.
I still have to take a deep breath before I can write her name.
Anastasia,
I don't mean for this letter to feel like a ghost from your past has reached out and touched you. I sincerely apologize if it does. For me to say that it's been a long time coming, would be an insulting understatement. My excuse is weak, and I'm not going to waste your time explaining it.
I'm thankful that you changed your mind and sent me your letter all those years ago, even though my lack of a reply screams otherwise. Just like you doubted I would read your letter all of those years ago, I really can't see you reading this, and if you are, I'm not under any illusions that you'll believe a word it contains. But I hope you'll keep an open mind and at least read this.
While this doesn't affect your life, I know that you've heard my life is no longer the way it was while we were together. I've worked hard to become a better man, a decent human being, but I realize I'm a work in progress. You're probably asking yourself why I'm telling you, or why I think you'd care, but I want to tell you that I now know I wouldn't be the man I am now if I'd never met you. I've realized how much I owe you, and know that you paid an unforgivable cost for me to finally free myself of being a selfish and cold man. If you'd never given me your unconditional love, I'd still be in denial that a love like yours existed, or that I was capable of feeling it. It's unfair and tragic that I've healed and laid my past to rest because I selfishly put your gentle soul through hell. I acknowledge how cruel I was to you, and how viciously I treated you. I wish that I could take every day that I hurt you back.
I know that I crushed you when I blamed you for my abhorrent betrayal. That was so wrong, such a horrible lie that I can't ever take back. At the time, my twisted way of thinking made me believe that you were at fault, you made me do everything I did that broke your heart. I refused to accept the fact that I was responsible for my behavior, that I was making decisions that hurt you terribly. Jesus, I know that I didn't just 'hurt you terribly', I accept that I broke your faith in love and your heart. I will never forgive myself for the years I spent degrading you and our marriage, and I certainly don't expect you to forgive me. I don't deserve your forgiveness. I don't forgive myself.
When we met, you began knocking on the door to my rock-hard heart, one that I'd convinced myself was long dead, and I repeatedly slammed that door in your face. But that didn't deter you, did it? Oh, for your sake, how I wish it would have. Now, I clearly see how lucky I was to have had someone in my life who willingly, and selflessly, did their best to simply love me. Whenever I told you I wasn't worth anyone's love, that I wasn't a human who deserved love, you always whispered, "Oh, but, you do, and what a magnificent human being you are." I can't remember your soft voice saying those words without wincing.
Every time that I hurled a cruel word at you or purposely threw your love back in your face, I knew you locked yourself into our bathroom and cried your eyes out. I heard you. I heard every time you were trying so hard to cry quietly so I wouldn't hear. I knew every single time, and I'd pretend that I hadn't heard you, or would walk off and ignore you. I admit that. I own my behavior. It's disgusting and vile, but I own it.
The two words I'm about to write will most likely make you angry and cause you to wad this letter into a ball and throw it into the garbage. I agree that they're inadequate for the hell you lived through with me, and I know saying this is much too late to matter.
I'm sorry.
I wish I had been that stable and good man you described wanting to spend your life with. I'm sorry that I disrespected you as a person, lied to you on a daily basis, and was so, so cold to you. I was so callous that I never even wondered why you stayed with me since I treated you the way that I did. I felt you deserved it, that you owed me things I expected of you. It felt like a game that gave me a thrill. I knew you would eventually find out what I'd been doing, and believed you'd stay with me. That's how badly I regarded you. I believed I was omnipotent and could never be brought down, and treated you like my pet.
There aren't words to express how sorry I am for doing those things, for feeling that way, for being so evil. I can't convey how ashamed of myself that I am.
I've come to think of our time together as a book of your life. I'm sure that idea is born from your love of books and anything that has to do with the written word. I also like to think of the time you wasted on me as being a short chapter in the book of your life. One so short and unimportant that it's skipped over. But since it was so horrific, that's improbable, isn't it? Maybe I should call it a horror story instead of a chapter. The horrific chapter you spent with me.
Well, in our story, you got the happy ending you deserved.
You've been the one who has moved on and found a man who loves you like you deserve to be loved. He's a good man who never forgets your birthday and knows the name of the hospital you were born in. I bet he knows how old you were when you learned how to ride a bike, the names of every pet that you've ever had. He knows what your favorite book, movie, shoes, and song are, doesn't he? This man knows what you're afraid of, your strengths and weakness'. He's got your mannerisms down to a science and knows you fidget when you're bored. He's aware you swear like a drunken sailor but have a heart of gold.
I'm sure he knows, and has accepted, that you leave your clothes on the floor, and organize DVDs alphabetically. On Sunday mornings, he gets the newspaper and immediately hands you the section with the horoscopes, since that's the only reason you read a newspaper. The man you love knows you inside and out because he's spent hours listening to you, and watching every move that you make. I know he's held you in his arms while you dance together, barefoot on wet grass, underneath a moonlit sky. But I doubt his lips have ever missed catching yours and kissing you until your breathless. I have no doubt about that.
I'm going to selfishly say that I should have been that man. But I'm not. I never was that man while you were my wife, and I can't help it – it makes me angry.
God, I see the catastrophe our marriage was, the catastrophe I made. I see the blood and guts. If bleach could clean up our past, I would buy the company who manufactures Clorox. I would get down on my knees, and scrub away every cruel word I said to you, and the agony my behavior covered you in. I was a self-centered narcissist, and always knew I was going to splinter your heart. I'd do anything to change that. Anything. But I can't. God only knows how I wish I could.
This letter is already too long, and you've either laughed at what I've written, or torn it to shreds, so I'm going to close. I'm truly sorry for being the kind of man who ruined us.
For what it may be worth, I'll forever lay in bed at night and wonder, "what if."
I toss the pen across the table and carefully put the letter into an envelope. I'm going to give it to her. I'll have to find out her address later, or I could be brave and give it to her myself. Anastasia would probably run in the other direction if she saw me approaching her, though. Who could blame her? I glance at my watch and realize I've been writing for well over two hours. Pushing the chair away from the table, I get up and head for the shower, where I only stand while scalding water beats on my skin. I stay there, staring mindlessly into space until the water runs ice cold.
Climbing into bed, I do what I do most nights: stare into the darkness. My every thought is always about her, and tonight, I think of a sad, yet appropriate statement I could tell someone:
"If they ask you about me, tell them: "She was the only person that loved me with honesty, and I broke her."
I know that from now until my dying day, I'll say those same words to my reflection. All of my days may be content, I might experience happiness, but I know my life will always be lacking, and I'll know why. I'll lack someone, someone who will never be a part of my life again.
Anastasia.
I'll lack her.
And I'll know she's never coming back.