On The Couch [Editing]

Prologue

Nine Months Ago

*

I poked at the lukewarm chamomile tea, swirling it absently with my spoon. Maybe if I watched the liquid circle long enough, the spinning vortex would suck me in like a black hole.

“Sonja?”

Somehow, I wasn’t as relieved by the trial being over as I thought I would be. The court room this morning had been full of tension. I refused to look at him. I knew he had been staring daggers at me but I never wanted to see his face again. The sentence he was given was as good as it was going to get. I kept waiting for the weight I had carried for so long to lift away, but it did not.

“Sonja?”

I looked up at my lawyer with dead eyes. “Hmm…”

“I want you to try this.” She watched me, studying my reaction.

I had ignored what Mrs. Brenda Long had been suggesting for the past two months. I was a stable person. I didn’t need therapy – or so I thought. Yes, I was badly damaged by the fear I had been living in, emotionally and mentally. Then there was the physical abuse.

“No, I just want to get back to work and put this all behind me.”

She sighed and flipped her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder. “I can make it a court order.”

“Haven’t I been through enough?” I pleaded quietly.

“Even the most healthy and stable people use this as an outlet, Sonja. This is no reflection of you and your ability to function.”

I looked back down at my tea. My mind was made up. What was the point? I sat here in her office a broken woman. All I had left was my successful career and I couldn’t even care about that at the moment. Therapy wouldn’t help me. There was no going back. I was changed forever and not for the better.

My lawyer continued to argue her case. “Your color is returning and you’ve gained some weight. So you must be eating normally again. Therapy could help that continue.”

“Then you see that I am improving without it,” I declared, making excuses not to go through with this.

“Go home, Sonja, think about it and get some rest. I’ll call you.” She knew when I wasn’t going to give in. The leather squeaked in protest as I bent over to pick up my purse. Without saying anything more, I left the office.

I drove without really thinking about it, having driven the route to and from my lawyer’s office a hundred times before over the last year of my life. I felt like I was on autopilot, shifting through my usual routine and expecting something to change.

Arriving home, I played the messages on my voice mail. Mostly they were from my best friend, Stacy, asking a dozen questions about the day’s events and Eddie asking about coming back to work. I didn’t call either back. The six hours spent in court and the conversation with Brenda had left me feeling completely drained.

I fixed a small salad and poured a glass of wine for a quiet dinner in my living room. Leaving all the lights off, I curled up in my old afghan on the couch. I drank my wine and vegged out to some random show on my television in the darkness, until I fell asleep.

*

Three days later I hadn’t spoken to anyone, nor returned any phone calls. Three empty wine bottles sat on my coffee table. I stared at the blinking light on my phone lying next to the bottles with a dozen or so texts and missed calls.

The most recent was from Brenda. I checked her message – reluctantly. What did she need now? Probably more paper work signed. I showered, dressing casually, not caring what I looked like. Once again the autopilot kicked in as I drove to her office.

“Good morning, Sonja, nice to see you’re still alive,” she said cheerfully. I cringed at the bright sunlight pouring into her office. “Long night?” She asked as she took in my disheveled appearance.

“Too much wine,” I said quietly and plopped down in the now-familiar armchair. One of those ugly brown, worn-leather armchairs lawyer’s offices always have. I had never really noticed the color before.

“Thought so. That’s why I had to do this.” She handed me some paperwork. It was all in my name – a court order. My eyes widened as I read what she had done.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I said angrily through clenched teeth.

“Because you’re hung over and you haven’t answered anyone’s calls. Eddie even called me asking when you were returning to work. You look like hell, too. You need this.” Her tone was firm and commanding – like she was in court.

I slumped in the chair, fuming silently. There was nothing I could do. It was ordered by a judge.

“It’s not going to do any good,” I said defiantly.

“Defensive as ever. We’ll see.” She gave me that all-knowing lawyer look, handing me a pen to sign my compliance.

As I scrawled my signature on the dotted line, I shook my head. I just kept thinking therapy could only make this worse.