Dr. West shook her head. “I don’t know, Shelly. Describe these thoughts you’ve been having. Then we can figure out if it’s the meds or if something else is going on.” Four words. Six words. Sixteen words.
I bit my tongue, not hard, just enough to keep from informing Dr. West that she was consistently speaking in sentences with an even number of words. I’d promised myself that I wasn’t going to count.
But here I was, counting.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Instead of drawing her attention to the number of words in her sentences, I cleared my throat and tried not to think about it, not counting to ten this time. “Has this happened to any of your other patients?”
“Not with fluoxetine, but this is your first time on an antidepressant. Describe what’s been happening.” Twelve words. Four words.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
“I . . . I think about one of my coworkers. Often. In inappropriate ways.” I glanced over Dr. West’s head to the blank white wall behind her.
She didn’t have any paintings on her office walls. She’d explained during our first in-person session six weeks ago that her patients—the type of patients she treated—became easily distracted by decorations.
No paintings. No magazines. No clutter. Just her chair, a chair for her patient, and a coffee table between us. The only other object in the room was an air purifier in the corner.
“You have to be more specific.” Six words.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I brought my attention back to Dr. West and her gentle expression. It had been that gentle expression staring back at me from the pages of a magazine last year that had convinced me to finally do this.
More accurately, it had been Dr. West’s gentle expression and the fact that my brother’s wife had just discovered she was pregnant with their first child.
My nephew had been born a few weeks ago. I hadn’t visited. I couldn’t hold him. I couldn’t. I wanted to, desperately, but every time I thought about it . . .
What if? What if he gets hurt? What if you’re the reason something happens? What if?
“Shelly?” she prompted.
I’d taken too long to answer.
Filling my lungs with filtered air, I endeavored to be completely honest without going into too much unnecessary detail regarding my thoughts about Beau. I’d learned over the course of my life that providing too much detail or being too expressive often disconcerted people.
“I think about his smile. He tells jokes. And he’s friendly. He goes out of his way to help people.”
“How long have you known him?” Six words.
“Just two weeks.”
“And you see him how often?” Six words.
“Almost every day.”
“Okay, so why do you think your thoughts are invasive or sexual?” Twelve words.
I rubbed my forehead, reprimanding myself for counting. Just stop. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
“I think about his hands. I think about what he looks like with no clothes on. I think about him taking my clothes off. I think about us kissing. Him touching me.”
“And then?” Two words.
“That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Really, Shelly?” Two words.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
“What? Should I have brought diagrams?”
She allowed herself a small smile and I knew she thought my question funny. Dr. West hadn’t smiled at all when we’d begun our face-to-face sessions over Skype last year, and I’d liked that about her. Smiles between strangers are a show, a mask, misdirection, manipulative.
Or I used to think so.
Before Beau Winston.
“No worries about inflicting physical pain? Hurting him?” Six words. Two words.
“No. Never.”
“Do you feel fear? When you imagine him touching you?” Four words. Six words.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
“No. Not at all.” I told my heart to slow down. She’s not doing it on purpose.
She stared at me, considering, the small smile still in place. “Do you think, maybe, you’re just attracted to this guy? Your coworker?” Ten words. Two words.
I couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you speaking in even sentences?”
“What’s that?” Two words.
“You did it again, Doctor. Every one of your sentences has an even number of words. You know I prefer sentences with an odd number. Is this the initiation of a secret ERP plan? Are you testing my endurance?” By the time I finished speaking I was out of breath.
And enormously disappointed in myself.
I didn’t drop my gaze, though the heat of embarrassment crawled up my neck and over my cheeks. And that was fine. I was used to being embarrassed. At this point in my life, being an embarrassment was my normal.
Dr. West stared at me for four seconds, and then said, “I’m sorry, Shelly. Is this better?” She spoke deliberately, slowly, like she was planning what to say, counting her words in her head.
I hated that she had to do that. I hated that it worked. I hated that I was already feeling better, calmer.
I glared at her because I couldn’t glare at myself. A surge of impatience flooded through me and I whispered, “You have to fix me.”
“Therapy isn’t about ‘fixing,’ Shelly. We’re building strategies to help redirect your existing responses. You know that. You are showing good progress. But you . . .” she paused, and I could see she was trying to keep a mental tally of how many words she’d spoken, “have lived with this disorder your whole life, and . . . you have made room for it.” Five words. Nine words. Three words. Five words. Seventeen words.
“I want to hold Desmond,” I pleaded. “Hug my brother. See my parents. I need to tell them the truth about what I did to them. Please.”
The pleading had begun three sessions ago. I’d broken down and cried in her office. I’d cried and cried. It was the first time I’d cried since childhood.
We’d been discussing my brother, Quinn. I hadn’t hugged him in years, since before our oldest brother’s funeral. Since I’d started lying to him all the time. Liar defined me more than any other word.
I missed him.
I missed both my brothers.
And I missed my parents.
And I wanted to hold my nephew.
And I want to hug my sister-in-law and thank her for loving my brother so fiercely.
But I didn’t deserve any of them, not after what I’d done.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
My chest ached at the thought.
Since my crying session, I’d felt off-balance, sensitive. I’d been feeling too much. Part of me wondered if it was a side effect of the medication. Dr. West said I’d had a breakthrough. I didn’t feel confident in her explanation.
“This is about keeping Quinn from your parents, correct?” Dr. West flipped to the back of her notes. “After your older brother died?” Nine words. Five words.
“Yes.”
“When your mother called you and asked you to reach out to Quinn. But then you . . . were afraid he would leave you in Chicago.” Thirteen words. Eleven words.
My stomach hurt at the memory so I folded my arms over my abdomen. “Yes. I didn’t want Quinn to go back to Boston. I didn’t want to be alone again.”
“You told her that he did . . . not want to have anything to do with them. With your parents.” Fifteen words. Three words.
You don’t deserve them. They deserve better. So much, so much, so much better.