“How are you feeling about the 25-year-old?”
“I feel sad for her, and I feel compassion.”

“Are you ready to continue the narrative?”
“What I said on Tuesday holds true. I am terrified to face what is on the remaining pages of the narrative. I know what is next, and I don’t know if I can give the 25-year-old what she needs. It’s 50/50.”

The 25-year-old needs compassion. She needs to share her story without being judged. She needs to know that no one will try to silence her or tell her she is at fault. What happened is undoubtedly something for many to judge, which is why it could never be shared before. And I have repeatedly punished myself for the choices I made that led to it happening. I almost wish I had been drunk because at least there would seem to be a legitimate excuse. My therapist tells me I don’t need an excuse. I audibly balk at that, but I know she’s right. It would be more of the same if that had been part of my story.

Instead, I laugh as I tell her something I did to retaliate. It’s something I am not proud of, but I certainly don’t beat myself up about it. She asks me to think about that. I do, and I will.

I don’t hand her the narrative. I don’t need to. She has read it aloud before. I barely remember writing it, let alone her reading it, but I know she did. She summarizes what happened. She says the words that I avoid speaking or even thinking. The blood drains from my body. I feel lightheaded and weak. I realize I am not breathing when I suddenly feel the desperate urge to inhale coupled with the spinning room and darkening field of vision. I correct my therapist. She repeats her summary, this time with my edit. The urge to run is stifled by my frozen muscles, but I manage to further correct what she has said. She repeats her summary a third time. I sit still. Just breathe.

My therapist tells me she thinks no differently of me. She knows exactly what happened and has no judgment. How is that possible? Is this real? Is this permission to let myself off the hook, too?

An overwhelming feeling. I’m going to cry. No. I am going to throw things. I am going to absolutely destroy something. I am enraged. There is nothing anyone can say or do. I am back at the Psychological Institute of Washington in the quiet room. Padded walls take blow after blow from my body while weighted furniture flies through the air. I scream. I sweat. I collapse to the cushions on the floor in exhaustion.

“Is there anything we missed?”
“I need a padded room.”
“You don’t need a padded room. You just need to sit with her.”

A padded room will allow me to take my rage out on something other than me (or someone else). But I know anger is secondary. If I choose anger, I can avoid the pain. But I’m not angry. My clenched jaw and straining neck are screaming at me to let the anguish out. But I stand, make brief small talk as I gather my things, and leave, wondering if my therapist knows I was doing my best to be present throughout the session.