“How are you feeling about the 25-year-old?” – Dr. C.

That was the lead-in question. That question determines whether or not I am in Self. If I am not, there is absolutely no way we are reading the narrative. If I am, we move forward.

I was feeling mad, but it wasn’t directed toward the 25-year-old really. I was upset, sure, but I felt mostly sad that the 25-year-old was where she was. I felt compassion. Compassion was the keyword. So, we moved onward.

I handed the pile of crumpled and folded blue legal paper with the hand-written narrative to my therapist and intentionally steadied my breathing while waiting for the words to start drowning me like giant, rogue waves. Except when the words started, I didn’t feel like I was drowning. My heart felt like it was pounding, but I was breathing, in and out, in and out. I was aware of every word of the narrative and could picture it in my head as I had many times before. But I was also aware of the outside world. My therapist was sitting with me. She was reading it. Cars were going by outside the window. There was a white house across the railroad tracks, through the patch of trees, on the next street over. I think I might cry. This all hurts. No one should ever be in this situation. No one should have to endure this, feeling as though they have no right to say “no” or “stop.” No one should question whether someone else has a right to do this.

Stabbing pain. Make it stop. Keep your eyes closed. If they think you are asleep, it will stop. Everything is black. I am gone. I’m not even floating. I have simply vanished. I have no knowledge of myself or my surroundings. Then, the white house and the sense that I am beginning to land again. I have a choice. Listen as the 25-year-old tells her story or slip away again. I can’t keep treating the 25-year-old the way others did. I need to stay and listen. I need to be present and compassionate. She needs me here with her. The words return. The lump in my throat returns too. I feel sad. No, I feel heartbroken.

“What are you noticing?” – Dr. C.

This is my second choice. I can remain quiet, or I can speak. Freeze is my usual response. Talking can keep me from freezing if I just will myself to get the words out. Shame, though less than I anticipated, also beckons me to stay quiet. But healing and being present with the 25-year-old requires that I continue walking this path today. “I want to say I feel sad, but that isn’t quite it.”

And just like that, I was talking about life back then. I was calm. I was present. I was in Self.

I’m afraid of the next several pages. I wrote the words, but I don’t recall exactly what I wrote. I know I included everything though. And with that knowledge, I feel terrified to go on. I don’t know how to navigate the feelings. Rather, I don’t want to experience the shame. My therapist reminded me that they are words on a page. It has already happened. It is my job to sit with the 25-year-old. It is my job to have compassion and understanding. It is my job to become equipped, experienced, and aware.