Page 69 of The Perfect Love

I wasn’t fine. I’mnotfine.

I don’t have to be fine.

Work was okay. It’s healing being there. But my classes? I could hardly focus, and walking across campus had me on edge.

I’ve been triggered with a capital T all day. Hell, might as well capitalize the whole word at this point.

Which is why I’m sitting on my couch, clutching a cup of tea, waiting for my therapist to connect to our video call.

It’s my first therapy session since I started school. My last one was in person, shortly before I left. I was lucky to find my therapist, Carina, in Birch Lake. Finding the right therapist is a challenge, and I went through two—one in person and one online—before I found her. I’ve only stuck with therapy as long as I have because Carina understands me and my needs.

She’s young, only in her early thirties, and maybe that’s why she’s the perfect match for me. She’s relaxed, and I often feel like I’m talking to a friend or older sister rather than a therapist. But one who is extremely direct and doesn’t let me get lost in my bullshit. She’s helped me a lot in reframing what I’ve been through and helping me orient myself to what I want going forward. She’s careful never totellme anything, but to ask the right insightful questions and let me do the bulk of the work.

When the call connects and she appears on the screen, she’s instantly a calming, if slightly concerned, presence.

She also gets right to the point.

“Hey, Chelsea. What’s going on?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My mind spins like tires trying to gain traction, but everything inundates me at once and I can’t get any grip. Can’t make the spinning stop or words make sense.

“It’s too much. I don’t know—I…”

“Chelsea, look at me. I’m going to count down from five, and I want you to take deep breaths while I do. Can you do that?”

I nod and she starts counting backward.

I close my eyes and breathe, not trying to clear my head, not trying to do anything, just focusing on breathing. It’s not until several deep breaths later when I realize she’s finished counting and I snap my eyes open.

“Tell me one thing. One sentence. It doesn’t have to make sense to me. We can fill in the context later.”

“I met a guy,” I blurt out.

“What else?”

“I’m really falling for him.”

“What else?”

“He plays baseball. Or something with baseball. I haven’t told him about—”

“One sentence at a time.”

I take another breath. “He doesn’t know about my past yet.”

“Okay.”

“I’m scared.” I let out another long breath. “I need more than a sentence now.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “He’s kind. Caring. A little bit of a tortured soul like me. He loves his mom and his sister and he’d do anything for the people he cares about. I think that includes me. We hadn’t fully discussed our pasts yet, and I didn’t know he had any connection to baseball. A mutual friend is how we connected and she mentioned it today, not realizing he hadn’t yet. Now I’m curled up in a ball on my couch feeling so… triggered.”

“Because he’s a baseball player.”

I force another deep breath because these words are almost painful to get out. My chest gets tight again, and it’s like I’ve forgotten how to breathe correctly.

“Because he also went to Syracuse.”

Her eyes widen and her mouth slips open. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

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