Page 62 of Falling Like Stars

“And what happens when you try to break out of this equation? What happens when you try to arrive at a different answer?”

“I can’t,” I say. “I tried. Once. Recently. There’s a guy and we…I might’ve had something with him, but it’s like a program in my brain that tells me I can’t. That I don’t deserve…”

“Don’t deserve…what?”

“Something better,” I whisper. “And it’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because he died. Josh was only fifteen. I was there. To just say, ‘Fuck it, things happen,’ feels all wrong. Like giving myself a free pass. That’s just cheap and makes his life cheap. Or disposable.”

Again, I expect Dr. Baldwin to tell me how wrong I am, but she nods again.

“Let me ask you this, Rowan. What’s changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re here,” she says. “You’re seeking help. That’s a huge step toward altering that programming. So, let’s go back to my original question: given everything you’ve just told me, what brings you here?”

Tears sting my eyes, and this time I don’t have the strength—or the will—to hold them back. “I’m tired,” I whisper. “Tired of living this way. I’m not going to relinquish responsibility. That’s cowardly. But maybe there’s a middle ground. Some way you can show me how to live with this and not feel so…”

“Burdened?”

I sigh. “That feels impossible.”

Dr. Baldwin reaches for a tissue from the box on her desk and hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I dab my eyes as the therapist goes to her desk and withdraws a notebook and pen. I suppose she’s going to take notes after all, but she hands them both to me.

“We have a lot to unpack together,” she says, retaking her seat. “But I want to give you some relief now, before we delve deeper in subsequent sessions.” She takes a second to squeeze my hand. “Because you deserve that, Rowan. It’s good that you’re here, advocating for yourself against that programming. We’re going to work to undo it, but in the meanwhile…” She sits back. “I’d like you to look around at this office. At me. Out the window behind me.”

I do as she says. Through the window, I see the rest of the elegant office buildings, palm trees, and the blue of the ocean in the distance.

“Now, I want you to write on that paper, the word ‘guilt.’”

“Okay.” I do as she says.

“Now, tear that page out and hold it up in front of you.”

I hold the paper so all I see is it and that word.

“Can you see me?” Dr. Baldwin asks.

“No.”

“Can you see the room?”

“Not really. Just at the edges.”

“Can you see what’s out the window behind me? The horizon?”

The future?

My heart aches. “No.”

“No,” Dr. Baldwin says. “Because the guilt is in the way. Now, I’d like you to crumple the paper up into a ball.”

Doubt and disappointment boil up; she’s going to ask me to throw my guilt in the trash like a basketball shot. Cheesy. But I do what she says and crumple the paper.

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