like something is wrong with me. Why would he not show up? Why would they never call?” I deflate against the couch with disappointment. “I would get it if they’d seen my scar or found out how messed up in my head I am, but they don’t even get that far.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Dove. You know that. You have a history of always being let down, it’s very normal for that to carry over into your adult life.”
“No one has as much bad luck at dating as I do.”
Sharon shakes her head. “How about a subject change. How is Donna doing?”
I smile at the mention of Donna. She adopted me when I had lost all hope; when I was sure I would never find someone to love me. I knew she would never be my real mom, but she was the closest thing I had to one. I love her, truly love her.
“Good, she’s good. I try and talk to her once a week. The nursing home she’s in keeps her busy.” Words can’t describe how glad I am that I got her into that nursing home. It’s the nicest one in town, and I figured it would be too expensive, but as it turned out, Donna had some kind of insurance no one knew about that ended up paying for everything.
“Are you still having nightmares?”
A cold chill runs down my spine. I haven’t had a nightmare in months, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone. Sometimes I go through spurts of being normal, and other times I’m so close to shattering that I’m in a constant state of fear, day and night. There is no glue to fix the broken pieces of a person’s past. You can go to all the therapy sessions in the world, take all the anxiety pills there are, but sometimes nothing helps indefinitely. There are parts of me that will always be broken.
“No, the nightmares have been dormant.” I fiddle with a loose string on my pants. “I went to a club the other night with Sasha. I’ve been trying to go out more, be a normal person, you know?” I say, sighing.
“That’s good. I’m proud of you.”
“The night was going well, and I was having a good time until I went to the bathroom and got separated from Sasha. I couldn’t find her and…” My lip trembles at the memory of that night. How afraid I was, how fragile. It reminded me of my time in foster care. A time I’m so desperately trying to forget.
“It’s okay, Dove, if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to.” Even though I’m not looking in her direction, I know she is smiling at me kindly. She always is.
“No, I want to talk about it.” I swallow around the lump in my throat. “The feeling of someone watching me is at an all-time high, and I think it’s because of what happened that night because I’m not talking about it.”
“Okay, then continue.”
Exhaling, I tell her everything from that night, how I felt when the guy touched me. How helpless I was as I rushed down the sidewalk and then how he randomly just disappeared.
I don’t even realize that I’ve lifted my hand and been touching my scar through my shirt the whole time I’ve been talking. Quickly, I drop my arm and look at Sharon, who smiles at me knowingly.
“Your worry over someone watching you is very normal, especially with your history and everything that happened with that guy. If you see him again, I want you to call the police. I also want you to work on your breathing techniques. I know it’s going to be hard, but try not to give in to those impulses of checking over your shoulder a million times.”
I almost roll my eyes. As if it’s that easy.
“I’ll try to control my impulses, but as you can see, I’m not good at it.”
“You still like to run your fingers over your scar?”
“Yes. It’s just a nervous habit. I’ve been doing it more frequently the last few days,” I admit. “I don’t know why, but it calms me when I do it.”
“Do you still not remember anything from that time? How you got that scar?”
“No. I don’t remember anything that happened in that place.” I’ve lied about it for so many years that the words pour out on their own. It’s the only thing I’ve ever lied about in therapy. The only thing I never want to