When I got home after school, I received a text from Charlotte asking me to come to her office for one of our appointments. I skipped downstairs happily, excited to see her. It was funny... I had resented our meetings at first and worried about them so much, but now I was just grateful to get a chance to talk to someone who would listen. She never judged me, and she always asked questions and held me accountable (even when I was deflecting really well). I knew that some people looked down on therapy, but I couldn't imagine why. Who doesn't need to talk to someone every once in a while, to make sure they're on the right track?
I took my usual chair as she waved me in and finished typing something on her computer.
"Writing something good?" I asked with a smile.
"Trying." She said humbly, as she took her seat.
"What are you writing about?"
She shook her head with a smile. "I'll tell you all about it at dinner, but we're focusing on you right now."
I rolled my eyes but gave her a small smile, so she knew I was joking. Sometimes therapy made me feel shy and small, but I made an effort to show her my true emotions regardless.
"First question, of course, is how are you doing on sleep?" she asked, as she had been consistently after I admitted my trouble with nightmares.
I bit my lip. I tried to think of a positive way to reframe the struggle I was having.
"Maya. Don't sugarcoat it! Tell me exactly what's happening." She requested, seeing right through me.
I chuckled and scratched the back of my neck. "Okay, fine." My face turned a little dark as I thought back to the images that I had seen the past couple nights.
I tried not to curl up on myself, but eventually pulled my knees up so I could rest my chin on them. It made me feel safer to cover my stomach and have a little protection between us.
I sighed. "It hasn't been easy. I don't normally get that many hours of sleep, but lately they've been filled with bad dreams."
I didn't like to use the word nightmares. Bad dreams made it seem less like I was struggling and more like I was facing a minor complication.
"And what happens in these dreams?" she asked, putting a fist under her chin.
"Umm... well, mostly it's dark and I can't see much. But I see his face or his eyes, or I hear his laughter. He used to laugh, you know, after he..." My stomach tightened and I broke off mid-sentence.
"After he hurt you?" she asked. I nodded. It was so much easier to nod and then speak. That way I wouldn't have to feel the threat of tears creep up on me and humiliate myself when my throat got thick with emotion.
"Yes. I guess he liked it." I said, not for the first time.
"You're talking about your uncle, right?" she asked. It kind of seemed like a stupid question, but I knew people who were abused once often had it repeat in their lives.
"Yes. My uncle." I said, trying not to grit my teeth together. Her face changed infinitesimally in anger, as it always did when I mentioned him. I smiled a bit at that and found the courage to speak once more.
"Sometimes in the dreams he's holding me up by my throat. Sometimes he's punching me. And then..." I didn't know how to describe the pain and the fear to someone who hadn't experienced it themselves. But the dream that had been haunting me for so long burned in my stomach and demanded to be spoken.
"I keep having this dream," I said, "where I'm in my old bed and he comes in and he walks over to me." I looked down at my trembling fingers and picked at my nails, wishing I could do much more damage. The corner of my thumb began to bleed.
"He's not smiling. He's not laughing. He's just watching me." I whispered.
"And then when he gets really close, I wake up. And my whole body is shaking in these long tremors that roll down my back, and I feel disgusting." I finally said, looking up at her so she knew I wasn't lying.
She spoke hesitantly, soft as a breeze. "Does it make you feel unclean? Like you need to wash yourself off everywhere?"
I nodded as my face twisted in pain.
"Worse than that, too. Sometimes I wish I could peel all of my skin off in long strips, until I was bare. Until everyone knew who I really was." I said.
"And who are you, Maya?" she asked, louder this time.
"I'm bad. I'm dangerous. I don't know how to warn people that I will hurt them. Just like I'll hurt you." I said, looking up because I had to know how horrified she would look. But her expression was unperturbed.
"You're not bad." She said. I shook my head, disappointed. She didn't understand.
"You won't hurt me, Maya. You are a good girl and you are loving and kind and you make mistakes, because you're human along with all the other good things." She said, speaking with wisdom greater than I thought anyone her age could possess.
"You don't see me clearly." I mumbled, defeated. I loved the image of me that she created, but it wasn't real. She didn't know the real me, like he did.
"Or maybe you're the one who doesn't see yourself clearly." She replied.
"Why not both?" I said with a small grin. She laughed a little and then began questioning me further.