I think I’ve got it figured out. I can hear my therapist say that she forgot that my father fucking sodomized me, and I can be okay with it. I can nod and say, “well, sure, you’ve had so many clients over the years…” and “it’s not the details that matter, but the emotional work I need to do.” I can empathize with her fear of being a bad therapist and reassure her that it doesn’t bother me.

Or then again, maybe not.

Having my father’s dick in my mouth when I was in third grade is not a goddamn detail. Having adults fingers in my vagina before I even started school, how can she forget that.

So what does it mean that we have such a long-term relationship? After all that time, what does she know about me? Nothing, really. She has only a vague sense of my experience.

What does she think when I’m walking up the stairs to her office? Oh, there’s Q. She another one of those who experienced some sort of sexual abuse as a kid, and she’s taking longer than most to get over it. But whatever, I can just pull out my stuff on the inner child and soothing and safety. You’ve seen one adult abused as a child, you’ve seen them all. 

Maybe it goes beyond that, says the frightened young girl inside of me: Maybe she doesn’t care about me. I take too long to improve. I am too fussy, too needy, too dirty, too repulsive, too much.

Okay, I know, I’m exaggerating. I’m being petulant and unreasonable. But I suddenly feel a loss of connection. I do wonder, again, if I’m a widget in the therapist machine that is her life. I feel small and meaningless.

It has taken me three and a half days from that therapy session to feel hurt, or to recognize the hurt that was there. A bit slow on the emotional awareness. Or in denial. Or trying to pretend everything is hunky-dory, as usual, pretend it’s all fine and maybe they won’t hate you, maybe they won’t reject you.

E is spending the weekend at the beach with her husband. I suppose it would be better not to text. It would set off her “bad therapist” shit. I don’t want to take away from her weekend. I can wait until Monday.

I think.

Shit.