“Did Ethan scare you?” she asks when I still haven’t answered her first question.
“Yes. I didn’t know who he was. He just—he immediately took charge and shoved me out of the way. I almost fell and at first, I wondered if he was with them. But then he grabbed the boy’s shirt and threatened him. He looked so incredibly angry, it was frightening.”
“Did it also excite you? Seeing his anger? How he wanted to hurt those boys who were trying to hurt you?”
I bend my head, not wanting to face her. “Yes.” My voice is shaky. “And that’s the last thing I should feel, right? Me? Excited by violence?”
“There’s no right or wrong in the way you feel, Katherine. If you were excited, no one will judge you. And if you’re angry now because he hasn’t contacted you, I can’t blame you. Your feelings are valid. They belong to you and no one else. Remember that,” she says gently.
It’s hard to remember when you’ve been filled with shame over what happened to you most of your life.
“I haven’t been angry in a long time.” I look up, casting my gaze out the window. It’s a gloomy day, cloudy and cold, fitting nicely with my mood. “I’ve been sad and depressed and cautious and overwhelmed. I can’t remember the last time I was mad.”
“How does it feel?”
“Liberating.” Our gazes meet and I start to laugh. “Empowering.”
“That’s good,” she encourages. “There’s nothing wrong with a little anger now and then.”
“He should be afraid if he tries to call me now. I might go off on him.” Laughter still tinges my voice but it sounds kind of . . . sad. And I doubt I would really go off on him, but it seems like the right thing to say.
“When was the last time you were happy?”
My laughter dies and I become quiet. Too quiet. My mind flips through memories as if they were flash cards, one after the other, going back years. “That morning, before it all happened,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. I’ve been on an emotional edge ever since I did that stupid interview. “I was normal then. Nothing bothered me. I had my mom and dad and my best friend with me and they didn’t think I was a freak. They didn’t treat me like damaged goods, like something they should be ashamed of, you know? Well, Brenna acted like she hated me half the time but I didn’t care. I hated her most of the time, too.”
“Is that really the last memory of when you felt genuinely happy?” Dr. Harris asks.
“Yes.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the tears, but it’s no use. They flow down my cheeks and I wipe them away. “Any happiness that I experience now is so fleeting it’s hard for me to hold on to. Or it’s always overshadowed by another emotion. You know what I mean? I can be happy, but there’s always something else lingering. Pure happiness feels like a myth.”
“I find it interesting that two such warring emotions happened within such a short time,” Dr. Harris says. “You were happy and terrified, both in one day.”
A fact I’ve never realized before. “No matter how much I try to forget that day, I can’t. Both the good and the bad memories cling to me. The joy of being at the park, one of my favorite places to go, there with my best friend, is a good memory. But it becomes tainted by—him. Those days he held me captive, what he did, they’re always front and center in my brain. Telling my story on TV didn’t purge it all away like I hoped.”
“Did you really believe you’d be able to purge it all that quickly? You only just did the interview, Katherine. It will take time, like everything else. Your quest to finding your true self is a process. We discussed this before.”
If I could punch my counselor, I so would. I’m sick of everything taking time. I want the instant fix, no matter how unreal my expectations are. I want it.
I deserve it.
I keep my phone off during my appointments with Dr. Harris, not that anyone reaches out to me beyond Mom and Brenna. I’ve given up on Ethan—as much as I can. I compartmentalize my emotions; I always have. Dad’s disgusted by me? Put him away in box one. My best friend, Sarah, ditches me at school and won’t be my friend anymore? Shove her into box number two.
Ethan won’t talk to me? No problem—I’ll just stash him away in box number three and never deal with him again. His loss, I tell myself.
I’m tired of dealing with emotions triggered by the actions of the people in my life. I did nothing. He’s responsible for this mess. Not me.
Irritating as it is, hope still lights the tiniest flame in my chest when I turn my phone back on and see the usual junk emails load up my in-box, the class assignments under the email address I use for school.
Imagine my surprise when I see a text from the very person I’d been secretly hoping for.
I’m going to have to cancel our meeting this afternoon. Sorry. Hope we can meet tomorrow at the same time instead?