I am currently reading a book written by a therapist. Two nights ago, I couldn’t put the book down. One chapter led to another and another. I didn’t realize that the book was divided into five stories, each of a particular client that embodied something the therapist respected. So, I found myself staying up to finish the story of a parentified, strong woman who had a strange, strong attachment to her father. She viewed him as an extraordinary man, despite leaving her (at age 9) to care for her two younger siblings in a cabin in the woods for two years. And that was only a small portion of the story. What struck me about this story was the trauma this little girl endured with never an ounce of emotion. Not anger. Not fear. Not sadness. She just picked herself up and figured it out. FOR. YEARS. Not just until she was eleven. She was now in her 20s or 30s in this therapist’s office and finally letting down enough guard to talk about her childhood. She didn’t understand the point of talking about it either. She was just humoring the therapist. After years of therapy, it occurred to her that she didn’t have actual feelings (emotions) about what happened. It was always about just getting things done. And that’s where it occurred to me that my story paralleled that of this young woman.

As my therapist read a small chunk of my narrative aloud, I was overwhelmed with emotional pain. The emotions were always there, of course, but they came out in unrecognizable or displaced ways. The emotions I’m beginning to feel are genuine and fitting, but too much at once is like stacking dry wood on an already raging fire.

First, I am taken back to a shower memory by Dr. C’s voice. I know where I am. “I didn’t want it.”

Then, I am seeking help. It’s okay. This is the past. You are safe (I reassure my 25-year-old self). Four hours and eight minutes of petting the cat in my lap and watching Kill Bill movies, and then I blurted out what happened while sitting with my friend in her living room. Encouraged to talk with my professor, I agree. “Don’t tell anyone else what happened. And I’ll be sure to tell your friend to stay quiet as well.” And so, I stood, steadied myself, squared my shoulders, and became as stoic as I could be. I was unbothered by what happened. Don’t be quiet. I am here. I am listening to you. You don’t have to pretend anymore.

The page turns, and Dr. C. presses on…”Then one night it happened again.” And just like that, I am staring at those big, blue eyes and that stupid, mischievous grin. I hate that grin. I hate what it communicates: “Got you. You can’t do anything about it. I have pulled you in.” I want to throw that asshole right out the window.

My brain screams at me to ask for a break, but my body sits silent and still. I am not there. We are not there. Those eyes, that grin are in the past. I blink, but the face is still looking at me. Something in my world feels fractured. I am in both places at the same time. I feel like I’m lying on my back in bed and sitting on my therapist’s couch. I am looking out the window, and I am staring at those eyes. I’m dizzy and confused.

And all the emotions I didn’t feel back then seem to be growing. My therapist has stopped reading. “What are you noticing?” I respond by telling her, “A lot.” I’m supposed to get granular, but that asshole is staring back at me. We are safe. We are in Dr. C.’s office. That asshole isn’t really here. I try to put words to how I am feeling, and a few come out. Satisfied, she asks if she should continue. The 25-year-old and I look up, though I think I am physically still. The eyes and grin move side to side. Asshole says no more talking. The 25-year-old needs me to step in, but I’m too overwhelmed to help. I’m sorry. It’s too much for me to keep listening. I manage to tell Dr. C. I need a break. I feel the sense of abandonment from the 25-year-old. I am teetering at the top of an unstable rollercoaster though, and I have to let go of the 25-year-old to hang on for myself.

I can’t help you right now. How did this even happen? How did you end up in this position again? I’m not speaking to the 25-year-old angrily or with judgment. I just want answers. Answers that I know don’t matter even though I feel compelled to keep asking. Just like every time before, she says nothing. She claims she doesn’t know. I am trying to communicate all of this with Dr. C., but my thoughts are jumbled as I try to keep myself and the 25-year-old separate and in the present moment. The raging fire burning in my chest and throat is licking up the oxygen around me. The emotions from me, or maybe the 25-year-old, or both of us, are intensifying. Then, nothing. The 25-year-old is gone. The big eyes and grinning lips disappear too. The emotions are gone. I have no idea what happened. I am just standing at the door asking my therapist if she likes my “Crocs.” I remember the look on her face. She was somewhat caught off guard, and her smile reflected an ingenuous enthusiasm for the shoes. Crocs are dumb. We both know it. I wasn’t wearing Crocs though; they were Vivobarefoot Ultra 4s, and I was testing them out as “recovery” shoes. It’s an odd thing to remember, and the exchange was odd, but it’s what brought me back to the present, in my own skin.

Now, I sit in a coffee shop, sipping a Cortado (made with almond milk). I’ve been here almost two hours. I’m wearing my Vivobarefoot Ultra 4s again, and I remember now why I wore them that day. There are little nubs on the inside that are intended to keep your feet from slipping when wet, but they give me feedback when I press my feet to the floor. They keep me grounded. I was wearing them to try to stay grounded (and probably became grounded as I stood and walked to my therapist’s door). It hit me because I instinctively squeeze my feet to the floor now as I type what was happening in session. I also thoughtlessly take sips of coffee when the lump in my throat gets too big or rub my eyes and head when tears threaten. My suppressed feelings are knocking on the door.

I think I need to pack up my computer and find some woods to get lost in for a while. I often find the 25-year-old out there, and I know I left her to fend for herself this time. I sat with her for as long as I could, but I know it wasn’t long enough.