“Let me help you”, the therapist said quietly and it took me back.
It took me back to that moment that I remember like yesterday.
I didn’t think I would ever forget it though. It was already a part of me, like a second skin.
That day I died, the day my soul was killed and the day that ushered in other days when the dead soul was killed all over again… and again… and again.
“Let me help you”, she said again.
Sighs. That was all she got from me.
The phrase triggered something in me. I wondered how I was sitting here calmly.
I wondered what I was doing here. Nobody could help me … Not even the beautiful therapist who was watching me with gentle eyes and a tentative smile.
She was looking at me as though she was scared to do too much; scared I would break if she did.
That couldn’t be further from the truth though, because I was not fragile.
Damaged? Yes, but not fragile.
If all I had to deal with was frailty, I would take it. If fragility were my issue, I wouldn’t be sitting here.
My issue were far beyond that and I didn’t think anybody could help me.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I finally said.
“Why don’t you tell me what brought you here in the first place? Then we can determine if this is a good idea or not.”
I didn’t even know where to start from, it was too difficult.
“Miss Brown?” she prompted.
“Please, call me Sally.” If I was going to bare my soul to her, she might as well call me by my first name.
“Okay, Sally. Call me Martha.”
“Okay.” I knew this was my cue to start telling her why I booked the appointment.
My best friend, Ava – the only person whom I allowed to be close to me – advised me to come see a therapist. She had been saying it for years.
I decided to give it a try … But not until after I hurt him … Not until after I saw how much I had deteriorated.
I looked at Martha as she waited for me to speak but I couldn’t.
“So, Sally,” she said with a tone that suggested we had just started the conversation and she hadn’t been trying to get me to talk for the past 1 hour since I got here.
“Why don’t you tell me why you decided to come in the first place?”
“I want to love and be loved and I am finding it difficult,” I answered.
“Okay. Why do you think it is difficult for you to love and be loved.”
“Because I can’t.”
“Since when have you noticed your inability to love and be loved?”
“Since ever.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Yesterday, I abused the man who loved me.”
At this point, it was as though we were in an interview. She asked, I answered.
“Why did you abuse the man who loved you?”
“He wanted to help me.”
“And you can’t be helped.”
It wasn’t a question, so I simply agreed, “Yes, I can’t be helped.”
“Why can’t you be helped?” Martha asked me after regarding me quietly for a few minutes.
“It’s a long story.” And it was indeed long.
“Why don’t you start? We will see where we get to in the remaining hour.”
I sighed. I didn’t think she could understand. She looked like one of those with a vanilla life.
She was also a therapist; she had to have a positive outlook on life. And I was sure because of her profession, she thought she could help everybody.
Some of us were beyond repair. That was what I kept telling Ava, but Ava said I was fixable.
She said I only had to talk to someone.
Well, I was here and I didn’t feel fine. I felt pressured, I felt the wall closing in.
Asking me to recount the events was like asking me to revisit the nightmare.
How do you tell someone to visit their own funeral? That’s mean.
“Why do you have a problem being helped?” I heard Martha say.
“Because it triggers me when it’s said to me,” I told her.
“Why is that?”
Silence
“Ok, you don’t have to answer that. Why weren’t you triggered when I told you I wanted to help you earlier? She asked, trying a different tactic.
“It’s probably because you are female and you were not holding me when you said it. Adam was holding me.”
“Ok, so we are establishing it has to do with Adam being a man and holding you.”
“Yes”
“Why?”
I responded with the usual stoic silence as Martha watched me with steady, patient eyes.
Then I heard a voice that sounded suspiciously like mine say, “Because that’s exactly what Uncle Martin said every time he touched me.”
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