The next few days felt like walking through fog. My mind wrestled with the strange mix of emotions Dr. Price's session had stirred. There was relief—a faint, unfamiliar flicker of it—at having shared even a sliver of the truth. But it was tangled with fear. Fear of what I had said, of what might come next, and of the cracks beginning to form in the armor I had spent years perfecting.
Mara checked in regularly, her messages brief but consistent. "How are you feeling?" or "You're doing great; proud of you." I didn't always reply, but knowing she was there brought an odd sense of comfort.
One evening, as I sat at my desk staring blankly at a notebook, the urge to write overtook me. I hadn't written in weeks, not since the Mara incident in the woods had thrown me off course. But now, my thoughts were swirling too fast to keep contained.
I flipped open the notebook to a fresh page and began jotting down fragments of ideas, strategies, and reflections. The meticulous planning I once found solace in now felt different. A question hovered over every line I wrote: Why?
Why was I doing this? What was the point? Was it habit? A desperate attempt to cling to control? Or was it something deeper, something I wasn't ready to confront?
I didn't have the answers, and that realization unsettled me.
Two weeks after my first session, I found myself back in Dr. Price's office. The room looked exactly the same—calm, inviting, as if time didn't touch it. She greeted me with the same warm smile, her demeanor unchanged.
"How have you been since our last session?" she asked once I was seated.
I shrugged, unsure how to summarize the chaos inside me. "Fine, I guess. Just… thinking a lot."
"That's natural," she said with a nod. "Sometimes starting this process stirs up feelings we're not used to dealing with. It's okay to feel unsettled."
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Unsettled" didn't even begin to cover it.
She leaned back slightly, her gaze thoughtful. "Last time, you mentioned feeling like you're pretending to be normal. Can we explore that a little more? What does 'normal' mean to you?"
I hesitated, my mind scrambling for an answer. "I don't know," I said finally. "Feeling things the way other people do, I guess. Being able to connect with them, care about them… without having to fake it."
"And do you believe that's something you're incapable of?"
The question caught me off guard. "I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe. I've never felt… real emotions. At least not like other people seem to. It's all just… empty."
Dr. Price's expression didn't waver. "You've described feeling empty, but you've also shared glimpses of other emotions—frustration, conflict, even curiosity about change. Those are real feelings, too. They may not look the way you expect, but they're valid."
Her words lingered in the air, challenging something deeply ingrained in me.
"Let me ask you this," she continued. "What would it mean for you to feel 'real'? What would that look like?"
I frowned, the question unsettling me. "I don't know," I said again, my voice quieter. "Not… this. Not feeling like I'm just going through the motions."
She nodded thoughtfully. "It sounds like you're searching for something—connection, maybe, or a sense of purpose. Those aren't easy things to find, especially when you've spent so long guarding yourself. But the fact that you're here, asking these questions, tells me you're capable of more than you realize."
Her confidence in me felt almost foreign. I didn't know whether to trust it or dismiss it as naïve optimism.
As the session continued, she guided me through exercises meant to help me recognize and label my emotions. It felt strange and awkward, like trying to learn a language I had no interest in speaking. But I went along with it, unsure of what else to do.
By the time I left her office, I felt drained but not entirely hopeless. There was still so much I didn't understand about myself, so much I wasn't sure I wanted to confront. But a small part of me—barely audible—wondered if she might be right.
That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, a memory surfaced. It was one of the rare moments of genuine joy I could recall: running through the park as a child, my father chasing me with exaggerated growls of a "monster." I remembered the sound of his laughter, the warmth of his hand catching mine when he finally "caught" me.
It was a fleeting memory, but it stirred something in me—a faint ache I couldn't place.
For the first time in years, I let myself sit with that feeling, unsure of what it meant or what it would lead to. But I didn't push it away.
And that, I realized, was a start.
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