Chapter 120: First Session
Fiona’s POV
The plan was for her to come over, but I refused. A change of scenery might be the therapy I needed.
Her office smells faintly of lavender. The couch looks softer than I expect, the kind that makes people feel like confessing everything. I sit down, cross my legs, and wait. My hands rest on my lap, calm but alert.
The therapist, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and a notebook poised, gestures toward the chair opposite me. “Fiona, thank you for coming. I know this might feel… new.” Her voice is gentle, her eyes darting between me and the large screen before her.
Will my story be registered there? I shudder at the thought. This is my first time in therapy, but I doubt they have to document the complete details of their client’s trauma and experience.
I nod. “It’s fine.”
She smiles, tilting her head. “Let’s start with something simple. How are you feeling today?”
I answer simply, “Okay.”
She pauses, studying me. “Just okay?”
“Yes.” My voice is even, measured. There is nothing more to give. I told Nick that this was a bad idea.
She flips her notebook, tapping her pen lightly. “And how about at night? Sleep, dreams?”
The question lingers longer than I expect. My jaw tightens. My hand twitches in my lap. I don’t tell her about the nightmares, the sweat, or the screaming. I just say, “I sleep.”
Her pen stops moving. “Do you ever wake up… feeling afraid?”
A flicker of annoyance, and maybe fear, sparks inside of me. I suppress it. She can’t read my mind, right?
“Not really,” I lie. The faster this session is, the quicker I leave this place.
She leans forward slightly, her eyes softly scrutinizing. “What do you feel whenever you wake up?”
The office is quiet, except for the faint hum of the air conditioner above. I can’t push the lie. I can’t tell her that I feel like sunshine whenever I start my day.
“Sometimes, I feel afraid.”
She doesn’t judge me; instead, she nods slowly. “Sometimes. And in those moments, what do you do?”
I shrug. “Wait until it passes.”
Her eyebrows lift. “It passes. Yes. But sometimes it stays, doesn’t it?”
The question digs a little too close to the truth I keep buried. My throat tightens. My back stiffens. I do not let it show. “Sometimes,” I repeat softly. If she wants more, she can as well bare my heart.
The room goes quiet again. She studies me carefully, as if testing boundaries. “Fiona, what would you say if I told you that anger, grief, and fear… sometimes linger because we don’t allow ourselves to feel them fully?”
I meet her eyes. My lips twitch almost imperceptibly—anger or amusement, she won’t know. I’ve spent months feeling this way, and she’s saying something about feeling it fully?
“Then I’d say I’m managing fine,” I scoff.
She writes something down, then tilts her head. “You are… observing yourself carefully. But I sense you’re holding something back.”
I feel the tiny pull in my chest, the familiar tug of exposure. But I don’t answer. I don’t flinch. My fingers grip the edge of the chair. “There’s nothing I’m holding back.”
Her gaze softens. “We don’t have to talk about it today. We can take our time. Even noticing that you’re holding it back… is a start.”
I nod once. Whatever.
I think Mrs. Felicia needs therapy, not me. It will take more than a smiling lady with soft words to get me to talk. But inside, a storm stirs. I try to remain as still as stone on the outside.
The session continues with small questions and neutral prompts. Each one brushes past the surface, nudges at memories I refuse to touch. And yet, I do not crack. I do not reveal.
“How best have you been handling your emotions?”
If I was handling it at my best, I wouldn’t be here.
“My man is supportive,” is all I say, tucking my hair behind my ear.
“That’s true.” She pauses, smiling. Doesn’t her face hurt with all that smiling, or is it part of the job? “But that’s about external help. I’m talking about you. What do you do to make yourself feel better?”
What do I do? Overthink. Cry. Doubt my strength.
“My baby. I think of her to get my mind off things.”
She jots something down in her notebook again. “That’s great. I can see that you are excited to welcome your baby. Congratulations, Fiona.”
“Thanks.” Now, is it over?
“You mentioned getting your mind off things? So you distract yourself then?” Shit.
I don’t answer again.
“Your baby is like a ray of sunshine given everything that has happened, but I want to ask, if you weren’t pregnant, how else would you handle it?”
“I can’t think of myself not being pregnant,” I bite out. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she’s calm.
“I’m sorry it came off that way. We can talk about how you handle your emotions later, but before we end this session, I want to know...” She pauses, scanning my face. “If you were to do something differently from your everyday routine to break the cycle, what would it be?”
I think of the question to understand it better, then search for an answer.
“Do I need to do something different?” I ask.
“Not totally different, but a little change will go a long way. There are several options to choose from. Go to a beach, visit a friend. Anything. But make sure you are doing it with intent.”
I was going to point out the fact that I came here, and that should count, but she lost me at "with intent."
When the hour ends, I stand, offer a minimal nod of thanks, and leave. My pulse has risen and my mind is alert, but my face is calm.
I’m surprised that I want to listen to her advice and do something different. Outside, the world feels louder, brighter, and somehow… lighter. A little of the weight has shifted, even if I cannot name it yet.
I walk to the car, thinking: this therapy… maybe it will do something to me. Maybe it won’t.