Page 16 of Edge of Unbroken

I raise my eyebrows at her. “How is any of that interesting?” I’m fucking over it already. I wish she’d call it a day and leave me alone.

“Well, it’s interesting because you’ve engaged in the same coping mechanisms that a lot of people who suffered the kind of trauma you have engage in. But I usually see more risk-seeking behavior. You know, drug and alcohol abuse, engaging in unsafe sex, things like that. My patients aren’t usually as careful as you.” It sounds like she’s talking more to herself than me. It’s probably a good thing because I have no idea where she’s going with this. “Ronan, what do you feel when you have casual sex?” she asks, looking back up at me.

“Umm… what do you mean?” I’m not at all comfortable with this conversation.

Doctor Seivert laughs. “I mean what does it do for you? Other than the obvious physical gratification, of course.”

I take a moment to think about her question, then shrug. “I honestly don’t know. I’m not even really sure why I did it; I mean, obviously it felt good to be wanted… for once… and… I… I honestly don’t know.” I sigh.

She exhales deeply, then nods at me with a warm smile on her face. “You said you’re not proud of yourself?”

I nod because it’s truly how I feel. I still remember that night last May when I made a move on Sophie, fully intending to sleep with her, and I suddenly realized I was only doing it to distract myself from my growing attraction to Cat—an attraction that, I was convinced, would be detrimental to her if I allowed it to bloom into love. I felt overwhelming guilt at the recognition that I was just using Sophie, was using her body in an attempt to shut off my emotions, to numb myself. It dawned on me how often I had already done that, how often I had sought meaningless sex after I had a run-in with my mom at home, after a fight or a beating. “I’m not proud of myself,” I say again.

“Why not?”

“Because… because I know that I didn’t sleep with them because I wanted an emotional connection. It was just… I don’t know. I guess I just wanted… I think I maybe wanted to distract myself or…” I ramble, not sure at all where I’m going with this. My emotions are all over the place. I have the hardest time expressing myself.

“You know, Ronan, I would venture a guess that what you were seeking wasn’t actually the sex, and I don’t think you wanted to distract yourself, either,” Doctor Seivert says in a way that makes me think she isn’t guessing at all, but is pretty damn certain of herself. “Sure, at first glance that’s probably what anyone would think, right? You were craving the sex, the physical gratification that came with it, but I think it goes much, much deeper than that.”

I don’t interrupt, letting her talk, hoping Doctor Seivert can shed some light on my inner workings when I have trouble even understanding myself a good majority of the time.

“I think what you were seeking, what you were craving, Ronan, was intimacy, to be touched gently because what you know is mostly pain. You wanted to be looked at and seen with softness rather than hate. You wanted to be smiled at, you wanted to feel safe, and, yes, you wanted to be wanted when you felt so unwanted by your own mother.”

I swallow hard, noting the painful lump in my throat.

“I believe that’s what it was about. You sought intimacy with girls when your mother—the first, and arguably most important female figure in anyone’s life—hurt you again and again. That’s a kind of pain, a kind of… violence that is soul-shattering. You were trying to fill that deep, deep void of love in your life. It was your mother’s duty, her responsibility to protect and love you, Ronan. That’s what nature intended, it’s what you needed and what you deserved from the moment you were born. That’s how humans thrive. And when you didn’t get that from the person who was expected to provide it to you, you did the next best thing: you sought that love in any way you could and wherever you could find it,” Doctor Seivert says.

There’s a deep, throbbing ache in my chest as my therapist’s words take root in my heart, leaving me unable to speak.

Doctor Seivert’s eyes are soft as she observes me through the screen, though I’m unable to hold her eye contact. I feel exceptionally vulnerable. “Ronan, I know it may not feel like it at the moment, but you’re making progress. And even though you were fighting it, you actually did open up to me today. Good work.”

I guess I did. Probably not in the way she had been urging me to open up—she always tries to get me to talk about my childhood and the trauma, but I haven’t worked up to that. I’m still too afraid to open the floodgates I’ve kept shut as tightly as I could over the last seventeen years. And what’s really weird is that I seem to have some huge gaps in my memory. It’s not like things are blank, but I’m still unable to recall specific details. It’s unnerving because I know things happened, but I can’t remember them.

“Ronan, I want you to keep taking ten minutes every night before bed and try to meditate like we discussed, especially since you told me you don’t want to take your medication,” Doctor Seivert says as we near the end of our two hours together.

She’s right. I weaned myself off my anti-anxiety and anti-depressant medication cold turkey because that shit made me worse. Aside from the fact that I was hardly awake long enough to remember taking my daily meds, the side effects were too harsh. The pills were supposed to make me stop dreaming, but they also made me stop functioning. I was drowsy and my thoughts were jumbled. The meds also didn’t improve my appetite and tended to give me the worst stomach pain. So I stopped taking them altogether.

It was rough for a couple of weeks, but I wasn’t in the mood for slowly decreasing the dose. I’m a stubborn asshole, I know. I got an earful from Doctor Seivert because it’s really not a great idea to stop medication like that cold turkey, but she ultimately relented, and we’ve been working on more “natural” ways to deal with the anxiety and depression that have been my constant companions.

It’s strange that it all only set in after the fact, that I wasn’t depressed or anxious while I was still living in the same house as my mother. I mean, sure, was I on guard when I knew my mom was home? Yeah, but I didn’t get triggered when someone pulled a broom out—like I did when my grandma was sweeping the kitchen a few days ago—or when someone said “come here” in just the right tone, or when I got a whiff of a scent that in any way reminded me of my mother, like the tea she would drink or her perfume. Now those are all giant fucking triggers that send me straight into a downward spiral. Doctor Seivert said that’s because I was in constant survival mode and there was no room for anything else.

I don’t know what’s worse—being in actual danger of getting hurt or your body still believing you’re constantly at risk no matter how much you tell yourself you’re safe now.

“Try to shut off your mind. Guided meditation is probably the most useful for now,” Doctor Seivert says, but I quickly remind her that I have no access to any sort of technology—other than my laptop, which I’m only allowed to use for therapy—to access any guided mediation.

“Oh, right,” she says with a laugh, even though I find no humor in that fact. “Okay, then try to repeat what we’ve been practicing. Systematically focus on each part of your body and release any tension, shutting out all other thoughts. And then keep working on your circular breathing when you feel even the slightest unease come over you. If you wake up at night from a bad dream, utilize the mindfulness technique. Remember: five things you can see, four things you can feel, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste.”

“Or, you could just let me have my phone back,” I say smartly.

She chuckles. “I’ll see you Tuesday. Oh, and Merry Christmas.”

I wish her a Merry Christmas in return, and I end our conversation frustrated. She still hasn’t granted me permission to use my phone.

Saturday, December 25th

Ronan

My grandfather doesn’t rouse me today, and I wake up to the sun streaming through my bedroom window. It’s a crisp morning, and it’s cold in my room—exactly how I like it. I did manage some semblance of meditation before bed yesterday, and, to my surprise, I had a restful night. For the first time in almost four months, there were no nightmares. There was no startling awake, no racing heart, no fighting for air. Instead, the most beautiful blonde-haired, long-legged girl finally appeared in my dream. Cat’s perfect smile is still visible in my mind’s eye, and I’m content lying in my bed this morning, warm underneath my comforter. I feel better than I have in a long time, even though my heart aches for Cat.

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