*I don't particularly like to write or read a chapter about a character's appointment with their therapist or psychiatrist. Considering Anastasia's head injury and the significant episodes (the blinding headaches and going unconscious) it's causing her, along with her personality changes, I felt like I had to write one. I threw in a bit of foreshadowing, as well.*
Chapter Ten
~Anastasia~
I sit. My heart is beating rapidly as I'm ensconced in a worn leather chair in front of a curtainless open window. Rain is beating down outside and gray clouds are hanging so low that it looks like you could reach up and touch them. The weather is typical of a January day in Seattle. The large room is airy and the old hardwood floors are scuffed with books piled upon them. One wall is a massive book shelf with a cross on the end of it. Several thriving houseplants are littered throughout the room.
I'm wearing my usual attire; a WSUV hoodie and jeans. Comfort is my stability, regardless if Christian isn't a fan. I keep telling him that despite being the girlfriend of a billionaire, I only leave Escala to come here.
After the highly charged discussion I had with Christian two months ago, and the subsequent black out I had that night, I finally capitulated and began to see a psychiatrist. I decided to follow Dr. Berman's suggestion and began seeing Dr. Rose Powell, who's specialty is dealing with cases like mine. Grace even championed her. Her walls read like a resume that's littered with degrees from every prestigious university I've heard of.
Dr. Powell's attire and appearance remind me of Annie Hall and I can see her as a free-living hippie. During our sessions, Dr. Powell sits on a worn, flowered softa, feet up, with her legs covered by a throw. Her laid-back attitude has me seeing her scoffing at wealth and living in a commune, although her practice is inside her very large and beautifully restored home in Capitol Hill's aptly named neighborhood, "Millionaire's Row."
Dr. Powell is in her early sixties, soft spoken, but very direct. Her expressions are always kind behind her black glasses, but I can see her studying me. I think she's just a human lie detector and that irks me. I like her, but she still irks me. In fact, it irks me that I like her. Hell, everything in my life irks me.
Today is my third appointment with her. Dr. Powell decided to see me for two-hour sessions instead of one. During our first session, I automatically thought that meant she believed I was crazy. Or brain damaged. Or both. I blurted those thoughts out when she first told me. Her not so finely manicured brows furrowed, and her brown eyes searched my face until my cheeks flushed. A seemingly interminable moment went by before she responded. Per her modus operandi, she remained unflappable by my inappropriate tone.
"I didn't say that you are, Ana, and no one has told you that you sustained brain damage from your head injury. Is that what you believe?" she'd asked me.
"I don't have to be an expert on traumatic head injuries to know that if my skull fracture damaged one tiny brain cell - that it killed it. We both know that a dead brain cell doesn't rejuvenate, and changes your damn brain function. It either takes something away from your personality, or adds something to it. Both are permanent and unwanted," I'd replied loudly.
Dr. Powell merely shrugged her shoulders, told me to be patient, and we'd get to the bottom of what's going on with me -because something is definitely going on with me.
That first session consisted of me recanting my life until this past September. The second was about how my life's been re-set after the attack, and how I'm doing now. I spent most of the appointment saying, "I don't know."
I found it frustrating and almost stopped coming to the appointments because they seemed pointless. How is talking with this woman suddenly going to open up the left side of my brain and I'll have an 'a-ha' moment and remember everything that I've forgotten?
But I didn't stop, and right now, I wish that I would have. Dr. Powell has jumped into the deep end today. She's begun to throw around psychiatric diagnoses. She's pointing out my anxiety, and how easy I am to anger. But it's my next, blurted out comment that really gets the ball of shit rolling.
"Kate cut her hair," I mutter.
"Quite the deflection, Ana. I bring up your anger and anxiety, and you say something off the wall. What are you referring to?" She pushes her glasses up on her head.
Those soft-spoken words of hers irritate me. I stare at her blankly. This new annoyance of people in general that's accompanied by low simmering anger, is brewing.
"You want to know what pisses me off," I say matter-of-factly.
I frown when she raises an eyebrow. For some reason, now I feel guilty, but then Dr. Powell laughs.
"That's an impressive attempt to circumvent our discussion, but I'm pleased that you finally want to discuss that pent-up anger. Tell me how your best friend's new hair cut has pissed you off."
I exhale an annoyed blast of air and don't reply. Dr. Powell isn't deterred by my silence.
"That's a very simple question, Ana, and frankly, using Kate's hair is categorically transparent," she persists.
I shrug. She's baited me with reverse psychobabble.
"You're only calling me transparent because you're going to say that I used Kate getting her hair cut during the time that I don't remember, is some symbol of my anger at missing out on that period of my life." I'm sarcastic and feel vindicated.
She runs a hand through her gray bob and shakes her head. "No, I wasn't. I asked you why you are angry, and you said it was become Kate cut her hair. Is it that you don't like her hair, or could it be that you're actually angry with your best friend?"
The question starts the gears in my head to grind and I involuntarily stiffen. I'd hoped to antagonize the good doctor, and now she's antagonizing me. And why would I be angry with Kate? Other than Christian, she's been glued to me every step of these past damn months. She tells me stories, and shows me pictures all of the time. She plays me videos in hopes to kickstart my memories. Kate also spends a lot of time ramming information down my throat; it's information that I don't ask for. She's always selling me on how great my career was going.
She's always annoying the fuck out of me.
Well, I'll be damned.
I purse my lips and inhale through my front teeth and glare at her. She beat me at my own game.
"She irritates me. Kate's way of helping can sometimes be like a bulldozer knocking down a glass house." I begin to rub my thighs and Dr. Powell watches. "I know that she's my best friend and number one cheerleader, but I'm tired of hearing her cheers. So, I guess there's an example of my anger," I hiss.
Dr. Powell ignores my tone. "Are you angry and frustrated with everyone who's trying to help you regain your memory?"
"I'm exhausted from being badgered. I am literally bombarded on a daily basis, with information that I don't ask for. I know that everyone means well, don't get me wrong. But it's getting old and I'm having a really hard time not telling people to shut the hell up."
"Christian included?" she asks.
I shake my head. "Absolutely not. He's the only exception. Yeah, he'll answer if I ask him a direct question, but he doesn't try to shove crap down my throat. In fact, we rarely discuss it."
"I want to focus on your anger and your uncharacteristic irritability. You've already been schooled that both could very well stem from the head injury itself." She pauses. "This anger, increasing hostility, Ana, tell me why you're so—"
That's it.
I blink several times before my resolve snaps like a twig. Pointing my finger at her, I lean forward in my seat and interrupt her.
"OK, Dr. Powell," I say loudly. "Am I angry? Of course. Why? Let me count the many reasons for you, shall I? For starters, my skull is literally screwed shut. I can't remember four important months of my life. Four months, that I, quote, unquote, lived some Cinderella romance, with a man that I only remember lusting after and giving my virginity to. Am I happy to know that this man is now madly in love with me? God, yes, I am! I love Christian so much, but I'm also furious that I can't recall the journey we had." My heart beat lacks coherence, and again, I'm not sure why I'm getting immensely riled up. It's almost exhilarating.
"The incidentals of my rage, are being reminded of how well I was doing in my dream career and that's something else I would have loved to have experienced. Everyone that I know constantly asks, how I am, and how I feel. What can they do for me. I'm sick of it. Nope, you know what? I'm sick of them."
I'm digging my fingers into my palms. Again, Powell's eyes are on me.
"I'm also sick of those hulking security people that Christian has following my every move. Their presence leads straight to the two giant elephants in the room. The fact that there isn't just one psycho on the loose that I lose sleep over - there are two! One, the boss I had while working said dream career, who is the reason I nearly died, and two, some deranged ex-whatever she was to Christian, and who wants both of us dead!"
I stop to suck in much needed oxygen and sit up straighter.
Dr. Powell raises a hand to stop me. "Ana-"
I shake my head vehemently and the room seems to spin, but I interrupt her and continue.
"I'm also angry because I see stories about myself on television and in the newspapers. Yeah, I get that Christian and Mr. Kavanagh are doing it to keep shit out in the public eye in case someone spots one of those psychotic freaks, but it's disturbing!" I'm crying now. "Dr. Powell, I'm scared!" I shriek.
I wipe the tears and snot off of my face and keep confessing. My voice is hoarse.
"Then, we have my coup de grace. I don't think that Christian is being honest about those women he claimed he only kept around for sex. I do remember Kate's extensive research into him before I interviewed him. I vividly recall that and she couldn't find as much as a female animal in a picture of him – much less a human woman. The explanation he's given his family, and then the one he gave me, just don't sit right with me. And, suddenly, we meet, and he drops his usual MO and we're suddenly insta love. He keeps saying he knew from the beginning that I-"
"He says he instantly knew you were the one for him. That you were different," she interrupts my rant. "Do you look at Christian's past and think he was a philanderer? Do you believe that, but can't believe he's changed for you?
I blink several times and tear my eyes off of her, glancing about the room. I inhale deeply to calm myself.
Dr. Powell says nothing, and silence ensues. I don't believe I've ever felt so angry and I just can't pinpoint why. The very thought floods my body with frustration.
"You mean to tell me that you don't find what he said is strange?" I retort.
She shrugs non-committedly.
"It doesn't matter what I think, Ana. It only matters what you think."
I scowl at her. Typical shrink response.
"I'm in no way being condescending, but do your feelings simply boil down to you being jealous, after discovering about Christian's past? Or rather, re-discovering Christian's past," she inquires.
"Who can say that I'm re-discovering anything about Christian's past?" I blurt out the thought that has kept my mind in over-drive.
"Kate told me I never once filled her in about Christian's past love life. She told me that she would grill me about it, because he had never been photographed with a woman. I just can't figure out what to do with this information. It's rattled my mind and my perception of who I thought Christian was – or the man that I'm getting to know."
"Is that a yes? It's simple jealously?" asks Dr. Powell, looking at me expectantly.
"No. I told you why I'm pissed off. Yes, the issue with Christian plays a part in everything, and it goes deeper than the other crap. For some reason, his past is more bothersome than the two psychos on the loose are."
I pull my hands from where I'd had them tucked underneath my thighs and fold them in my lap. Looking down, I stare at the thin gold bracelet on my left wrist; it's the home of enter-twined, diamond initials - C and A. It was a Christmas gift from Christian.
I twist my lips and contemplate Dr. Roses question.
"It could be jealousy. I don't have any relationship to compare this one to, so I don't exactly know how jealousy feels," I tell her.
This radiating doubt I have concerning Christian's strange and secretive sexual life prior to meeting me feels like a burn to my bones. To be blunt, it doesn't make a shred of fucking sense to anyone. I don't know if I find it hard to believe because I can't remember him explaining his past to me, or if it was the incredulous reaction his family had to finding out about it. Am I staring at Christian puzzled by his explanation concerning these relationships, because I just can't force myself to fucking remember, or do I feel like he's outright lying about them? Who hides women you're dating from the press, so your family doesn't know about them?
If his family asked to meet one of these women, and he didn't want them to, Christian could have said no. In the small amount of time I've had getting to know him again, I'm aware that saying 'no' comes quite easily for Christian. Kate told me that when she began to see date Elliot, he warned her not to bring Christian's lack of dating to him or anyone in their family. He said they respected his privacy, and as the loner in the family.
He further told her not to press the issue, because despite how damn odd it is, his family quit questioning Christian about his life after he abruptly turned his self-destructive personality around as a teenager, although he became completely closed off from his family afterward. According to his brother, the painful distance Christian placed between himself and his family, was enough of a hint to never insert themselves in parts of his life that he kept separate from them. However, Elliot told Kate that Christian changed once he met me.
"Ana, I'll be happy to sit here and watch you look out the window for the remainder of this session, but I like you, and I don't want to waste your money on my fee," Dr. Powell interrupts my deep thoughts and drags me back into her office. She's wearing her glasses again and is giving me a searching once over. I shift in my seat, trying to look relaxed and I nod.
"I apologize for drifting away, as well as for my behavior, Dr. Powell. I'm not like this. I mean, this attitude I'm stuck in. These words, rather, the way I talk to others, isn't like me." I shake my head. "There are just so many things going on inside of my head, and the insanity circulating around my life, I feel out of control and frightened."
"You're an intelligent young woman. I don't need to tell you those feelings are natural. But you still haven't answered my question."
She's just not going to drop it.
"What question?" I ask.
"Do you think you're so angry because your jealous? You don't have a sexual past, and you wake up from a coma, in love with a man with one that you deem odd."
She's just not going to let it go. I'm telling Christian to demand a refund on the money he's wasted paying her.
Her office, my amnesia, along with her placid attitude, make me grit my teeth together. Dr. Rose Powell's mouth has set me on fire.
"Yes!" I exclaim, tossing my arms in the air."Christian's strange dating past has me furious. I'm telling you that I have a gut instinct that something is off. I can't grasp the reason for such behavior, and he can tell me that I knew everything from the beginning of our relationship, but Kate says that I never told her anything about Christian's past." I stand up and then sit back down.
"Hell, she's the one who wanted to ask him if he was gay, since that was the overwhelming belief here in Seattle. If Christian told me about these women, why didn't I tell my best friend about them? We tell one another everything, for God's sake!" I go on in a high-pitched voice.
God almighty, how is this supposed to help me with my memory loss?
Dr. Powell frowns. "Perhaps Christian asked you not to discuss his past with Kate. Maybe he wanted to keep his private life private, and knew she was a part of a family that owns a large media conglomerate, and was going into journalism herself."
"You're saying that he didn't trust her?"
She shrugs. "Who knows, but it's plausible. They had just met. Have you asked Christian if he told you not to disclose his past to Kate?"
Hell. Furious Ana just disappeared. I inhale sharply through my nose and exhale the breath through my mouth. Her question has made me feel and look like a complete idiot. I shake my head slowly.
"No," I mutter through my clenched teeth. Well, that's not really the truth.
Again, the woman gives nothing away. No reaction whatsoever. I'm grateful this time, since I've made myself look supremely stupid.
All my previous anger and annoyance is completely forgotten, which serves to irk me all over again. I don't even know what emotion I'm feeling.
"I see," she says. "Why not?"
"I don't know how to address this question. It'll bring up the night when all hell broke out and I don't exactly remember what Christian told me. I think I asked him if he told me to not confide in Kate or not and he said that he told me not to."
I play with my bracelet and stare at the floor. My expression has to look vacant now. I look up at her and she's got an eyebrow raised.
"Has Christian made you feel like you can't speak freely with him? Does he strike you as the type of person who is secretive?" she prompts.
Those blurry memories I have of Christian mesh with the life we've had together since he walked into my hospital room months back. They're tangled, but I have to say, that no, he hasn't been secretive. And he told me that he never asked me to sign one of those non-disclosure agreements.
"No, he hasn't. It's like I told you earlier, Christian is always open whenever I ask him about our past. He tells me little details, ones that are special and private. He's told me about our relationship like a bedtime story." I pause. "Christian has recounted every moment about our life together. From me tripping into his office, until the night Hyde attacked me. He's been an open book."
Dr. Rose cocks her head to one side. "You haven't asked him because he's made you feel reticent to do so?" she inquires.
I sigh, rubbing my hands on the thighs of my jeans again.
"Maybe," I whisper reluctantly, my voice anxious. "Christian can be intimidating without trying to be."
"I suggest asking the man. How else will you find out? You don't have any evidence that would lead you to believe Christian never confided in you. I think doubting him at this point is unwarranted. Give him the benefit of the doubt before condemning him," she tells me.
Dr. Powell stands and walks to a mini-fridge and grabs us both a bottled water. I drink mine greedily. She sits down but doesn't cover her legs up in the blanket like she usually does.
"Ana, I want to talk about Kate. I know that she's been your closest and best friend for years. Now, you're both dating brothers. Indulge me with your history."
I look at her curiously. Why would she want to discuss Kate?
Like when I try to remember anything, the futile attempts to grasp onto the slightest memory always makes me sick to my stomach, and I begin to panic. I want to look unaffected, but I'm positive that I'm failing spectacularly. I shake my head dumbly.
"Calm yourself down, Ana. This is a simple question, so don't turn it into a quagmire. Take in a few deep breaths and slowly exhale." Dr. Powell is frowning at me. "I can't have you hyperventilating on me, can I?"
I do as I'm told and try to gather my scattered wits. I put my hands over my face and I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands. Mascara be damned.
"How do you feel?"
"Like crap. My mouth is dry, I'm sweating, and my heart is about to burst from my chest. I want to puke and pass out - in that order. It . . . feels like I'm going to die," I murmur, my voice is achingly sad.
I'm so tired of dealing with these everchanging feelings. They're like whiplash. But why has the thought of discussing Kate brought this to the surface.
"Drink the water," she orders me.
She does appear to be sincerely apologetic.
"Whenever you look at your past, you begin to panic, don't you, Ana? What you are experiencing is a panic attack, and I suspect it isn't the first one you've had."
Trembling fingers twist off the top of the water bottle, and I take a few sips. The water is now warm and feels disgusting on my tongue. Once my fear of imminent death passes, and Dr. Powell is satisfied that I'm OK, I tell her to continue.
She smiles. "Describe your relationship with Kate."
The corners of my lips weakly lift up. "You know we were roommates at WSUV, and quickly became best friends. More like sisters. I think we've always felt like sisters because neither one of us has one. Kate comes from an affluent upbringing, and is confident and outspoken. She always speaks her mind. I don't think I need to rehash my upbringing or childhood, but Kate has always been the leader in our relationship." I have to stop because I'm beginning to laugh at some of the stunts she nagged me into going along with in college.
"I've always been the caretaker, I suppose. I always did the cooking and chores. I guess that means I'm the wife in our relationship." I snigger at the thought.
"Since you're now living with Christian, and Kate is with his brother, what's your friendship like?" Dr. Powell asks. "I know she's doing everything she can think of to jog your memory, even though you'd like her to slow it down, but has Kate's actions, along with her relationship with Christian's brother, changed your friendship?" she asks.
"Absolutely not. Like I said, we're sisters. There's nothing we wouldn't do for the other. She's a fantastic, caring, and loyal woman. I love Kate," I emphatically say.
Dr. Powell is rubbing her chin and nodding. I still feel like getting up and walking out of her office. She's irritating the hell out of me. It doesn't matter what we're discussing. She's just too damn calm. Nobody can be this calm.
"What has Kate told you about your relationship with Christian?"
I chew on my bottom lip. Dr. Powell probably won't approve of a few of Kate's blunt, and not so positive comments on Christian. For some reason, I feel embarrassed and apprehensive. I don't want my best friend to look like a trouble maker.
"Well, like I said earlier, she has tons of pictures of us . . . well, until our apartment was set on fire," I say, my tone angry.
"Anyway, she's told me about our trips on Christian's boat, a family trip we all took to Grace and Carrick's home in Montana. Kate's practically thought of every way that could possibly cause a memory explosion."
Dr. Rose's head is cocked to one side. "And what has she told you of your relationship with Christian? How has she described his personality to you?"
I think carefully and swallow more of the too warm water.
"Kate told me that she was leery of Christian when he came into my life; she claims he put off a bad vibe, but she could never pinpoint the reason. She says he was stuffy, yet cordial, whenever she was around. Kate says the early weeks of our relationship were upsetting. She went on to say I seemed to always be upset; naturally she became upset, too." I quiet for a moment and softly sigh.
"Kate said that on one particular night, she found me in the bed, hysterical, and soon after, Christian showed up and they fought. She tried to block him from entering our apartment. Not long after that incident, Kate and her family, along with Elliot, went to Barbados. She said when they returned sixteen days later, Christian and I were happy and madly in love, and I was no longer hysterical and under any bedding." I give a hollow laugh, and pause to gauge her reaction. The reaction that doesn't exist.
"I asked her why I didn't live with Christian, because he says that he was always begging me to move in with him. She said it was because I wanted to live out on my own a while as an adult in the real world. But she says that I practically lived with him anyway, and she was always at Elliot's." I stop and stare at my Chucks. "Kate admits her relationship with Christian was contentious at first. They're friends now, though. Everyone has said they've argued and it's always to do with me. It sounds like she's still trying to nag me into situations that he doesn't approve of. Kate doesn't believe I should have to listen to everything Christian says. She told me that we've argued over several situations, and Christian is always the reason. It seems that many of those arguments were due to Christian's security and his strange obsession of keeping me safe, but like I said, they're friends now."
"Do you think Kate and Christian view you as a doll, and they both have a hold of one of your arms, and are pulling you apart? Perhaps, fighting for you and your attention?"
"God, no!" I snap, affronted. "Kate's opinions are bigger than life, and from what I've come to learn about my boyfriend, so are his," I reply. "But they don't compete for my attention."
"Ah. Classic type A personalities who are both very protective of you, but in extremely different ways, eh?" she asks.
Confused, I shrug. How do I know the answer to that? She uses her hand to motion for me to continue.
"How has Kate described Christian? Jesus, let me count the ways. Then and now?" I ask.
Dr. Powell nods her head.
"In the beginning, she called him stuffy and that he acted like a man twenty years older than he is. She still says that he's over the top possessive, and that he's extremely jealous. But I've worked that out on my own. She claims he's the most controlling person she's ever met, so far as to buy the company I worked for."
I take a minute to think about how Christian described my apocalyptic reaction to finding out he bought SIP.
"What other adjectives has Kate used?" Dr. Powell asks, looking, what? Alarmed? Amused?
"Determined, assertive. She says he's a genius. He's also abrasive, curt, controlling, and domineering," I say, and think about Christian's personality.
"I see all of those traits, too." I tell her.
"She's also told me that as cantankerous Christian can be, we rarely quarrel. Kate says that from what she knows, we've only had two serious fights, and both happened at Christian and Elliot's parents' home. We were having a dinner and Kate said that I suddenly stood up from the dinner table and left. She told me it resulted in me refusing to speak or see him for several days. She said I wouldn't talk about what happened. Not only is that mortifying, it's so unlike me." I pause because I don't know what saying this may cause."
My stomach clenches and I know that I'm in a safe place to say this. I lean towards her and though we're alone, I whisper, "Dr. Powell, I think Katherine does know what happened during those dinners. I also think she knows everything about my relationship with Christian, and I'm also meaning how it started. I don't know why she's keeping everything to herself, but I know our relationship. We never kept a single thing a secret from the other."
She stares at me for a moment and I feel guilty for some reason.
"Have you directly asked Kate if she's hiding things from you?" she asks.
Now, I just feel stupid.
"No. And before you ask me why, I think it's because of what she'll say, and it isn't her simple opinions of whether or not she likes Christian." I whisper.
We sit in silence and Dr. Powell stares at the notebook she's been writing in. I'd love to know what she's writing about me.
"I think if Kate knew something terrible about Christian, she wouldn't hide it. So, if she does know something incidental, let's put a pin in at and address it at a later time. Agree?" she asks.
I nod, still staring at my shoes.
"Ana?" I hear her ask.
"Yeah." I look up at her.
"Where'd you go?"
"No where. I was just lost in my head. I'm sorry," I apologize.
"Let's talk about Christian. How are you doing?"
I halfheartedly smile. "We're good. Sometimes things are hard, but we get through them. He's endlessly patient with me. I honestly don't know what I'd do without him."
"How's your sex life?" she asks.
I nearly roll my eyes. She's asked me this at every one of our sessions.
"It's good. Really good. It's still new to me; but I enjoy it a lot."
Dr. Powell doesn't laugh at me. "Excellent. You both sound like you're deeply committed to one another, Ana. Never lose sight of that, or take it for granted. You have to work at staying in love with one another. If a relationship is going to thrive and last, the couple has to put in the work to make it last. There isn't a happily ever after if one partner gives up," she says.
"I know. I'd never take Christian's love for granted. I don't take anything in life for granted anymore. But I do take my relationship with Christian into account, and wonder how I ended up with him. Why he chose me to settle down with and to fall in love with."
She narrows her eyes. I can see she's curious.
"Why do you entertain such thoughts?"
I scoff at her.
"Good grief! Have you seen Christian Grey? He's a real-life Adonis, and don't forget a boy wonder billionaire. I can't help but wonder what in the world he's doing with me. I'm Ana Steele, and I trip over imaginary rocks, and keep my nose in old, musty smelling novels." I begin to rub my jeans and stare at my shoes.
"I only seemed to garner a fashion sense once we became a couple, and I remember the shit clothes I wore the day we met. How did I capture his eye, much less hold his attention, dressed that way? It flabbergasts me, every time that I look at him," I softy admit.
"I must say that you've completely surprised me. Why do you believe such things about yourself, Ana? They're so negative and opposite of everything that you are. I don't know what your clothes looked like the day you met Christian, but obviously, he didn't care about them as much as he did the woman wearing them. That man loves that your nose is stuck in old novels, Ana. You're beautiful and intelligent." She stares at me for a long time. "You don't have a reason to slam your looks or personality, much less compare them to Christian's. You need to have a serious discussion about this with him, Ana. This isn't a lack of self-confidence, it's self-loathing, and very unhealthy."
She's considering me seriously, and I don't like it. I don't want to be under her microscope.
"I'm not ready to voice my thoughts about that particular subject."
"Perhaps it would be a good idea to discuss it when you ask Christian if he informed you of his past when the two of you became romantically involved."
Frowning, I check the time on the clock on the wall. Our session is nowhere near its end.
"Perhaps." The word rolls off my tongue slowly.
Dr. Powell allows the following silence marinate in an understanding manner. She bears a dispassionate semblance, but I doubt she's pleased with my reply. I use the opportunity to once again stare out the large window and observe the colorless and cheerless Seattle sky; it's been a week of constant, dismal rain. Peering at it only makes me feel more restless and discontent.
"Ana?"
She startles me, causing me to jump. I rapidly swing my head toward her. Her bearing is so comfortable and relaxed. Mine must be the exact opposite, and I really feel like making a run for it. Her self-ease makes me unusually envious.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Can you repeat what you said?" I ask, tired of her needling me.
Tired of everything in general.
"I asked how the other aspects of your relationship with Christian are going? Are the two of you communicating well? For you, a relationship is a brand-new world, so how are you dealing with it? After all, it's comparable to being thrown into unchartered waters."
"We communicate. However, I do hold back a lot of things I want to say. I haven't voiced my opinion about certain things I don't like, but Christian's strong personality tends to intimidate me. He's very moody. He tends to sulk much like a child." I stop because I'm afraid of making my boyfriend look like a complete asshole.
"I won't even get into his temper with his employees, that is. He's never treated me with disrespect, but I hear him yelling at his security a lot, and it's usually about me."
"I suppose a man of Christian's standing is used to having people do what he says whenever he tells them to. I recognize that strong personality that you're referring too. If Christian and his behavior are intimidating you to the point of not being yourself, I suggest the two of you seek someone to counsel you both," Dr. Powell tells me. "It's my opinion that you and Christian should be in counseling together, regardless. You are both experiencing this strange new way of life together, and you need to know how to best help him deal with his feelings, and he with yours," she finishes.
I raise an eyebrow.
"Maybe. Like I told you, Christian does see a psychiatrist, and that might leave him open to the idea of us talking to someone together. He still doesn't believe I should be here. He says I shouldn't be in treatment for what happened to me. I thought he was going to strangle Dr. Berman when she kept stressing the importance of me seeing a psychiatrist."
It's her turn to raise an eyebrow as she quietly observes me.
"I'm aware of his heated discussion with Dr. Berman, but you haven't mentioned he's still against you having any psychiatric treatment. Does Christian have a specific reason for his opinion?"
"Yes, he says there's no evidence that coming to see you will help me regain my memory. He said he discussed it with his psychiatrist, and he agreed with Christian."
Dr. Rose's eyes look troubled. "That's quite a controversial statement. Christian's personal psychiatrist shouldn't have an opinion on your treatment, or lack thereof. Have you ever met, or spoken about your trauma with his psychiatrist?" she asks me.
"Nope, I've never laid eyes on the man. You probably know of him. He's Dr. John Flynn."
"I'm well acquainted with Dr. Flynn. He's an excellent doctor."
Those bushy eyebrows furrow again. "I'm quite surprised he would offer an opinion on another's psychiatric care, especially if he hasn't treated or diagnosed them. Interesting, very interesting."
"Christian says that he personally believes a person's past can be a hindrance to them, and is sometimes better if it's left alone," I say.
"Who said that? Dr. Flynn or Christian?"
Her stance has altered slightly, and she's repositioned herself on the loveseat, leaning toward me. Her modus operandi has changed, and it's alarming me for some reason.
I feel anxious and uncomfortable again.
"Christian," I quickly reply.
God, I don't want to tell her something that will make Christian look bad.
"He doesn't think that treatment could benefit you, and help you work through these problems you're dealing with? What's Christian's opinion when it comes to what you've been through?"
"We haven't discussed that aspect of my therapy."
"Ana, are you downplaying what's really going on with you?" she asks, frowning at me.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I parry back at her.
"Does Christian have any idea about your issues? That you are most certainly exhibiting symptoms of depression. That you're experiencing panic attacks, and are suffering with PTSD. Earlier, you told me that you can't sleep, and are experiencing nightmares. Parasomnia is the fancy word for those symptoms."
Jesus, what is she leading up to? My body has tightened with fear. Maybe she does believe I'm brain damaged. If she doesn't, she sure believes that I'm screwed up.
Thanks, asshole Jack Hyde, that I can't remember.
Where's irrationally pissed off Ana at now?
"I'm not depressed, Dr. Powell, and I'm not having panic attacks.
I'm aware that I'm furiously rubbing my hands on my thighs again I stop and swallow hard.
OK, I had expected my anger would disguise the anxiety I'm always feeling. Without being on the defense, I've lowered my protective shield.
She gives me a much-appreciated reassuring smile.
"Calm down, Ana. Your ass is in that chair because you want treatment, and that's what I'm attempting to give you. But I beg to differ about your diagnosis'. Your body language is screaming you're anxious. Or can you give me another reason that you look like a cat sitting on a hot tin roof?"
"My throat painfully constricts. She continues quickly and doesn't give me time to search for an answer.
"When did the nightmares and insomnia begin? Were you still in the hospital?" she asks.
I feel like someone has their hand on my heart, squeezing it so tightly that it's going to split open. I want to throw up.
"Why are you just now telling me about this?" Dr. Powell continues to hound me.
"I - I don't know. I was very angry at my previous sessions."
"You've been angry for the majority of this session," she challenges.
Shit. Hell. I'm back to scrubbing my thighs with my hands again. Where did this habit come from? Next, I'll be deemed OCD. I shake my head and don't reply.
"What are the nightmares about?" she asks and I take a sharp breath.
God, I deal with this every night; I don't want to think about this during the day as well. I think I hate this woman.
"The nightmares are always about faceless people chasing me. They eventually catch me, and I try to fight them off of me. They are terrifying, and I always wake up crying – sometimes screaming. Christian is always there and holds me until I've calmed down. He's told me that he was plagued with nightmares his entire life, but no longer has them. He attributes me to driving them away. He claims I keep them at bay just by sleeping with me, which I actually believe is impossible, but that's what he says." I heavily sigh. "But with me, I'm actually afraid to go to sleep, so I lay awake most of the night, trying not to wake Christian up," I confess.
I feel embarrassed. She's studying me once again.
"Are the nightmares and insomnia every night?"
Tears flood my eyes. I nod.
"How much sleep do you think you're getting?
"Not a lot. Maybe three hours, but I do sleep a lot during the day."
"I suspect the fact that you're sleeping the day away is due to the depression," she insists.
"Pardon me, Dr. Powell. I am not depressed, and you're pissing me off every time you say that I am."
I'm glaring at her, but she's unfazed. Let's get pissed off again, Ana.
"I'd be pissed if I was only sleeping three hours each night, too," she retorts, and once again ignores my comment.
She reaches behind her and grabs a prescription pad off her desk.
"You're a nervous wreck, aren't you, Ana? And I'm not talking about your insomnia and your night terrors. I won't ask why you haven't told me, because I see you're quite a stoic young woman, and would rather suffer in silence. But I can't do anything to help you if you aren't honest with me, and just choose to fall apart."
The tears have turned into full blown sobbing. Dr. Powell gestures to the box of Kleenex beside me. In the past two hours, my emotions have swept from one side of Seattle to the next.
I swear I have whiplash.
"I'm a disaster, Dr. Powell. A walking, talking, disaster, and I can't tell anyone," I whisper.
My confession is garbled croaks, scared and tentative whispers. Those un-manicured brows furrow over black rimmed glasses.
"Well, that's just bullshit. Ana, you'll tell me the truth if you want me to treat you. I'm serious. I will not be your psychiatrist if you aren't honest with me, and tell me what's going on. I can't help you unless you want me to. Are we clear?"
"Yeah, yes." I say in between hiccups. "You really think there's something wrong with me? I thought these sessions were strictly about getting my memory back."
I am not thrilled with how this session turned on me. I wanted to leave this place indignant, not covered in snot.
"No, I don't think there's anything wrong with you, Ana. Your attack, whether you recall it happening or not, and its aftermath, has left you experiencing several mental health issues, but nothing that can't be treated. I've sat here and watched your panic attacks. I'd dare to say that you have experienced full-blown attacks without anyone knowing." She pauses, raising a brow as she scrutinizes me. "The biggest issue that has to be addressed goes back to your anger, fluctuating moods, and why your thoughts are shaky and all over the place. Depression—" she's speaking emphatically, until I interrupt her.
"I'm not depressed." I sniff unceremoniously.
Dr. Powell purses her lips and finally expresses an emotion. Wow. She's exasperated.
"Fine. Let me point it out to you. One, you lack interest in anything. Two, you close yourself up in the bedroom and aimlessly stare at a television. Three, often you don't bathe until mid-afternoon. Four, you're barely eating. Five, one moment you're crying and the next apologizing for bothering people by doing so. Six, you're having trouble making decisions, and seven, you can't concentrate whatsoever, not to mention the habit you've developed of trying to rub the skin off your thighs. Ana, that could be a sign of self-harm if you have nothing covering them." She stops and takes a deep breath.
"Ana, we've spent six hours together in the past week, and I've picked up on everything your body language has exhibited, along with what you've told me, as well as your behavior. Your attitude has changed several times in this session alone, and for God's sake, that doesn't mean you have a split personality." There's a long pregnant pause before she speaks again.
"I know the different things we've discussed today have caused your moods to swing like a pendulum, but the outright fury you were feeling when you walked in my office isn't something I want to see again. You finally admitted what you're so angry about, but did so in a furious tirade. You angrily, but unknowingly, told me things that are clear symptoms of depression. Ana, you've got too much weighing you down, and you aren't going to get well by being stubborn and not allowing me to treat you." Dr. Powell is actually pointing a finger at me.
"Your mind is currently jumping from A straight to Z, in the matter of seconds. That is not healthy. Can you see that? Do you agree with what I'm telling you?" she asks.
Sighing, I begrudgingly agree with her. I'm well and truly fucked up.
"You haven't had a blackout since Christmas, is that correct? she asks,
She begins scrawling across a page from the pad.
"Yes. It was when Christian took us to New York for the holidays," I quietly say.
"I'm relieved to hear that. OK, that means you'll only take the pain medicine as needed. You're off the anti-seizure medicine?" she asks me.
"Yep." I'm just too tired to talk.
"I'm writing you a few prescriptions, and I expect you to take them as directed. One is an anti-depressant, but it will take a while for it to build up in your system, so don't expect immediate results. We can try another if this one doesn't help. And here's an idea; keep track of your headaches/blackouts. Let's see if they increase or decrease."
She winks at me before continuing, but I think it's to reassure me and smooth my ruffled feathers.
"I'm also prescribing you a mild anti-anxiety medication and a very mild sleep aid. If you have adverse reactions to any one of the medications, stop taking them, and call me immediately. Take the anti-anxiety med the minute you feel yourself begin to panic, Ana. If you don't, it will be like closing the barn door after the horses have gotten out. Do you understand?" Dr. Powell asks, looking me in the eyes. "Will you follow my instructions?"
"It doesn't sound like I have much of a choice, Dr. Powell," I huff at her.
"Sure, you do. It's just a matter of making the right one. Will it make your life easier if I write down my professional diagnoses for Mr. Grey to read?" she jokes.
I don't laugh.
She isn't the one who lives with the man who is obsessed with my health, safety, and food intake.
"Christian will probably stay up all night researching each of these medications on WebMD. But I've come to see that once Christian makes up his mind that he doesn't change it."
"He's very formidable when he wants to be, isn't he?"
"Very," I respond.
Dr. Powell hands me the prescriptions and stares me in the eyes. OK, woman. I get what you're trying to convey. I'll take the shit.
"Well, Ana, our time is up. Don't forget to schedule your next appointment."
She stands, but I remain in my seat.
Ugh. Should I? There is something that's been bothering me.
Something I haven't mentioned to her. I suppose she's the one who could possibly make sense of it. Plus, she can't tell anyone about it. Oh, Ana. Just tell her
"Dr. Powell, can I tell you something that I've not mentioned before? I'm sure you have another appointment, so I'll keep this brief. But I need to know if what I've been experiencing could go along with my head injury. You know, like it could be a memory trying to break through. I just want to know if this is normal," I tell her.
"Absolutely, Ana. And I won't chastise you for not telling me about it. What's going on?"
I swallow and shake my head. It's so confusing. Dr. Powell is really going to think that I'm nuts.
"Well, can a person start to regain a memory from just a feeling?"
She has to think I'm crazier than she already does. Dr. Powell sits back down and looks puzzled. She patiently waits for me to continue.
"I've started having these weird feelings, but I can't fully explain what they're like. I know it doesn't make sense. But it happens during the day, and I dream about it, and—"
"Elaborate, Ana," she breaks in.
"Well, actually, there's more to it than just a feeling. Whenever I get the feeling, or sensation or whatever it is – I also hear Christian's voice. He's saying, 'good girl' and it feels like he's praising me for doing something."
"'Good girl?'" she asks. "Does he call you that? Is it a term of endearment?"
I shake my head.
"No, that's why I thought it could be a memory returning. I've never heard him refer to me as a 'good girl.'"
"So, after this feeling falls upon you, you also hear Christian calling you a 'good girl', and you feel like he's praising you? Like he's telling you that you've done a good job, or pleased him in some way?"
"Exactly. Here's what I find strange, so strange it bothers me. I hear Christian, but his tone is different. It's indifferent and harsh. I'd even say the tone of his voice is mean. It wakes me up whenever I dream about it and leaves me feeling ashamed. It's so disconcerting. I feel like I've done something that I'm ashamed of, and then Christian sounds like he's praising me for doing it. I know I'm making zero sense right now, but what could that mean?"
"Ana, amnesiacs can regain a memory in many forms. I've known of thousands of cases where a person begins to remember something by experiencing a feeling long before it's visual, and they fully recall it. A smell can unlock a memory, so can looking at a particular object. Truly, anything could trigger you to remember something, or everything. Have you brought this up to Christian?" She raises an eyebrow because she already knows the answer.
"No," I mutter.
"Whenever you experience this, you feel like you've done something that Christian approves of, and then he praises you? Although, he doesn't sound kind, or like the Christian you know?"
"Yes. It also frightens me, Dr. Powell. Not only the way he says it, but there is like an aura within the feeling. God, I know this sounds nuts! And this . . . aura is unsettling and unpleasant. I don't like it – the scary feeling, and the way Christian sounds. Is it just my skewed brain causing this, or could it be an actual memory?"
She looks thoughtful.
"My answer isn't going to satisfy you, Ana. I can't tell you what this is. This could very well represent something significant, or might not mean anything at all. Are you ever frightened of Christian?"
"God, no."
"From what little you can recall, were you ever frightened of him?"
"No," I answer.
"I wish that I had a concrete answer for this, Ana, but I don't. If this continues or progressively expands, we'll address this further at our next session, and don't hesitate to contact me if you need me, OK?"
Again, she's really not asking a question.
"You have three very important tasks to do before we meet again: talk to Christian about his past relationships, tell him about this disturbing feeling you're experiencing. Most importantly, fill those prescriptions, and begin taking the medication immediately. I'll be able to tell if you haven't."
Nodding, and irritated about this entire session, and life in general, I stand to leave, just as her secretary buzzes to tell her that her next patient has arrived.
"Remember everything we've discussed today, Ana. Be mindful of your feelings, and act accordingly. Are we good?
"Yes, thank you, Dr. Powell. I'll see you soon."
I put on my raincoat, and head out the door, where I'm met by Sawyer, and his female cohort Prescott. We leave Dr. Powell's in silence, and the minute my feet make contact with the sidewalk, Prescott is basically pulling me to the parked SUV.
I really wish Sawyer was my only CPO.
"I need to go to the pharmacy," I tell them.
Yes, ma'am," Prescott replies.
For God's sake, I'm twenty-two, and it's stupid for any of these CPOs to address me as 'ma'am.' The only one who sometimes calls me Ana, is Sawyer, and that's when we're alone and it's our secret.
Brooding in the backseat, I watch the rain dancing on the window and try to clear my mind of the past two hours. I never would have thought talking could be so exhausting. But one thing stands out from my time with Dr. Powell, and now it's beginning to bother me more than it already was. I can't trust my own mind to tell me if these feelings mean anything. I close my eyes and put my head on the headrest.
Concentrate on that cryptic feeling, Ana. Figure out what the fuck it may or may not mean.
Hell, who am I kidding? I can't force myself to remember shit; I have to stop this, and believe it's just a part of my new disturbing life. Ana, stop being paranoid, lose these constant fears, and quit believing that everything is a precursor to danger.
This stupid, nonsensical feeling isn't some forewarning, and I didn't wake up from a coma with a skill at premonition. A frisson of uneasiness doesn't mean this inexplicable feeling is an omen, or make Christian a creep.
It's simply my brain re-setting itself, settling me into my new world, and wracking my feelings. So, this feeling is eerie, but it isn't necessarily a memory. It's just a random, irrelevant feeling.
A feeling that has me believing that I've done something that I'm ashamed of, and causes Christian's voice to sound so harsh.
He sounds so distant and unkind. His words, seemingly praising me for whatever it is that I did, and what I'm ashamed of.
Christian calling me a 'good girl.'
Why would he call me that?
He's never said that to me.
Good girl.
What would I have done for him to call me a 'good girl'?