AN: The previous chapter got too damn big, and keeping this there felt a bit like emotional whiplash, so now you get two chapters instead of just one.
TW: Description of historic rape.
It was weird, being in doctor Spiros's office and somehow feeling full of nervous energy. Instead of feeling like a massive weight was dragging me down. I was glad for the change, but didn't realise at the time what it meant. Doctor Spiros noticed it though.
"Ah, miss Christian," he smiled, collecting his pen and paper. "You seem rather more energised today."
"Maybe I am a bit," I handed him the 'homework' as I replied.
"Are you okay to begin where we left off?" There was an edge of concern in Spiros's voice.
"I think so," I nodded slowly. I wasn't sure, but I damn well had to try. For Elsa. For myself. I couldn't let Hans win. Ever again.
"I would like to try a method called EMDR first, to help you process what happened."
I frowned. It sounded vaguely familiar. "The relaxing sounds?"
Spiros chuckled. "No, that's ASMR. EMDR stands for eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing. It's a curious cross between exposure therapy, annoying tapping, and the very old notion of hypnosis."
"You're right, it does sound weird."
"There's a big advantage in that it doesn't need any drugs to work."
"Really?" I honestly hadn't really thought about the drugs that might be required.
"Yes." I saw his gentle smile. "With cases that aren't time-critical, I prefer to attempt non-drug based interventions first." His smile faded. "Before we begin, I have to warn you that this might be a deeply unpleasant experience. As a variant of exposure therapy, you'll be recalling a traumatic event in order to try and process it. In addition, I need to be able to touch your hand—your palm—to tap it. I also have to be close enough that I can hover a finger near your eyes for you to follow—that's the 'hypnosis' part."
I couldn't hide the doubt on my face. "How does it work?"
"We're not a hundred percent sure. The tapping and the eye movement reminds you that you're here, not there. Recalling the event, talking about it, is supposed to be able to help you process what happened, and understand that it's not happening now. I think it will help you to move past fear and into understanding."
"I'm willing to try."
"Very good, but I still need your permission." His voice was quite firm.
"What?" I frowned at him, confused for a moment. "Oh. You can tap my hand, and I guess this close—" I gestured vaguely in front of me "—is okay."
Doctor Spiros dragged his chair to be in front of me as I sat up a little straighter. He held up an index finger about a foot from my face. "I need you to follow my finger while we do this, okay?" It felt silly, but I tried to keep his finger in focus as much as possible. "I'm also going to tap on your palm like this," and I felt a single finger tapping slowly against the middle of my palm. "Now comes the hard part—I need you to pick one of those bad memories, and tell me about it, in as much detail as you comfortable with."
"We're… in the bedroom. It's not the first time. He's already hit me today, and I'm scared he'll do worse. He says he can make sure no one ever believes me. He's still got his shirt on, unbuttoned. I can see the power in his eyes. His hands are holding me down. I don't want to, but if I stop, if I say no—he's made it worse in the past. Made it hurt so much. He's too good at hurting me where it won't show. I hate what he's doing. I hate him. I hate how my body works. How it betrays me. Trying to tell me this is good—trying to make what he says the truth. I don't like him being inside me. How forceful he is. But my body likes some of it, and I feel dirty. I shouldn't like this at all. My body shouldn't work like that for him. Not ever. But I'm too scared of what else he can do.
"He tells me it wasn't so bad. Tells me it could be better if I just 'got into it'. I can feel my nails against my palms. I want to hurt. I want to suffer for letting him do that to me. But I don't want to. I can't just run, because he'll find me. He always says that. And he's a cop. He can make the others believe his story too easily. He's still touching me, too. I don't want that, but if I say stop, he'll hurt me again, and again. Or leave me tied up. I'm scared he could do much worse. He said once he had a perfect plan. I'm too afraid to move, so I just lie there.
"I can't run and take a shower. He'd know why. I can't hide, but I can't let him see what I really feel. I'm so happy I can't have children—one thing he can never use against me. But the way he touches me, pretending to care. Pretending it makes any difference to what he just did. Why… why…"
And suddenly I was looking up at Doctor Spiros, still idly following his finger, feeling him tap against my palm. I went back. I felt everything from that night. There was even an unpleasant tingle downstairs. It was too real. And yet… I had managed to say everything, too. I didn't collapse, but I did feel sick. Deep breaths would help. Deep breaths to ground me. I whispered the mantra to myself. Fingers. Pen. Clipboard. Pictures. Carpet. Sounds. Voices. Quiet music. Breathing. Birds? Touches. Something tapping my palm. Tears on my cheeks. My bra slipping. Smells. Rich tea. Sweat, or salt, or something like it. A taste. I licked my lips, tasting a tear. It counts.
I let out another breath, not really feeling any better, but certainly a lot more present. I could focus on doctor Spiros, and the tapping against my palm.
My voice was shaky when I could finally speak. "Am I meant to feel this crappy?"
"No," his voice was so calm it was almost unbearable. "But the first few sessions can be the hardest."
"It gets worse?" I threw myself back against the sofa, hands clutching my arms. "Seriously?"
"It might," there was a lot of sympathy in his voice. I appreciated it, even if I was still shocked, and a bit angry. "Recovery isn't a straight line. Sadly, you're not guaranteed to get better and keep getting better. Things can regress. Events can be triggers you haven't dealt with yet. There can be times you feel worthless, and wonder if the process is even worth it. I say it is, but I might be slightly biased." I had to give him a little smile for that. "Recovery is hard, I won't lie. It will also make you stronger."
I sighed, sitting forwards slightly. I let my arms relax a little. "But not… not yet."
"You already are a little stronger," his smile was so genuine I couldn't say anything. "You told me a dark truth. Something you hid from everyone—even yourself. That takes strength."
"But I still feel like shit." It was the honest truth.
"And that's okay." I gave him a skeptical look. "No one feels great a hundred percent of the time—it's just not possible. Much as it hurts, negative feelings are just as valid as positive feelings. They let us know when something is wrong. If we let other people see them, they know we need help. Negative feelings are unpleasant, but they're not worthless, and they're far from useless. First, you have to understand what they mean to you, and then work out how to deal with them from that. Which is why you're here, is it not?"
Oh, you crafty son of a bitch.
"I will take that as a compliment."
I rested my head in my hands, mumbling into the air. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"
"It's okay," I peeked out between my fingers to see his smile, full of perfect teeth. The smile faded slowly, and his eyes narrowed into a look of concern. "Now I have some important questions for you; about how you feel now."
"I told you, I feel pretty crap."
"I recall. These are more serious: Do you feel like you are in any danger, or might be dangerous to yourself?"
I shook my head slowly, not really understanding. "No…"
"I know you came here on your bike—do you feel up to riding home?"
When he mentioned it, I realised just how drained I felt. I'd done nothing physical, and yet felt completely empty. But I also didn't want to sleep. Just in case that memory—still so fresh—came back to haunt me.
I answered honestly. "No, I don't. Not right now."
"Would you like to call a chaperone, or a taxi?"
"I'm kinda tired," I blinked slowly, trying to keep my eyes open as I looked around his office. "Maybe I could rest somewhere for a bit?"
"We have a small 'recovery' room at the end of the hall past reception. There's a kitchen there where you can make yourself a drink if you'd like."
I wandered down the hall, past reception. They had sachets for hot chocolate, at least. The recovery room, as doctor Spiros called it, was quite small—not quite cramped—with an armchair, a bed, and a desk that folded out from the wall. There was no lock, but there was a 'do not disturb' sign. I hung it on the outside of the door. Then I just sat in the big, plushy armchair, nursing my hot chocolate, wishing life could be easier. That things hadn't happened to me. But they had, and despite how unhappy I felt, I still felt like I'd accomplished something that day.
I texted Elsa, then she called me.
"Hello, Anniken," just hearing her voice was enough, somehow. "It was bad today?"
"Not bad…" I dragged the word out, also trying to correct her at the time. "But hard. I feel bad. Unhappy. Guilty, maybe. I'm not sure."
"Do you think it is helping you?" Curiosity and concern in her voice.
"Probably. The techniques are helping," I could feel the smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "I needed to rest. To talk. This chair is pretty comfy too."
"You cannot make me jealous."
"I have hot chocolate."
"…bitch." We both laughed. It felt good to laugh at something so stupid.
"I'll see you when I get home."
"Okay, Anniken. Love you."
"Love you too. Bye."
I spent another ten minutes just sipping my chocolate and letting my mind wander, trying to keep away from darker thoughts. It worked, for the most part. I still didn't feel great, but I didn't feel anywhere near as terrible either. Just kind of on the low side of neutral. The ride home was uneventful, save for getting stuck in a bit of school traffic. The rest of the afternoon, and the evening—that's best left for other times.
—∞—
Joan is looking at me, aghast. I take her hands in mine, and pull her closer, leaning our heads together. I speak softly and clearly for her.
"I'm okay. Are you?"
I can feel her shaking her head. "How could—how did…?" I can hear sniffles too.
"It took time. I went to therapy," that gets a little laugh. "I figured out that being helpless, trying to let my mind run like that, was a defense mechanism. And I'm sorry if it scared you, or hurt you, to hear me talk about it. I know it's not pleasant."
"'Not pleasant'?!" there's a great amount of incredulity in her voice. "You were—Hans, he… he—"
"He raped me," I pull Joan into a very tight hug. "You don't have to say it. I didn't know how terrible this would make you feel."
"I think I felt it 'cause you did. You might be too good at stories, mom."
I sigh, brushing her hair with my fingers. "I'm sorry."
I can hear a sort of happy sniffle. "You did this a lot for Elsa, didn't you?"
"I did."
"Can I… Can I talk about this with dad, later?"
"Of course, baby," I pat her softly. "You know what you need. I wish I'd been as wise at your age."
She just headbutts me softly, looking straight at me. "I have a great mom."
