TRIGGER WARNING! Fictional, but potentially distressing content coming your way so turn back now and read one of my goofy posts if this one is not what you’re lookin for. xoxo
I think I have always been super interested in the brains ability to detach from trauma as a way to process it. I started writing about this girl named Blair a while ago and completely fell in love with her. She is 19 and a student at a small community college near her home in Highlands, New Jersey. I still write through her eyes a lot, so heres a little tidbit of her story:
When I was little, my dad would hit me a lot. Not when I did anything necessarily bad, but just when he felt like it, I guess, or whenever he was stressed out from work. It wasn’t always a fist, though, too. Sometimes it was his belt, or sometimes he’d just slap me or grab my wrist really hard until it turned white. It all eventually stopped once my mother divorced him and took me and my little brother with her, but yeah, he used to hit me. He never hit Jacob, which was a huge relief to me at the time. I always felt that I needed to play the protective older sister role cause Jake was a bit of a shy kid, the type that never stands up for themselves.
Anyways, that’s how I wound up alone in this waiting room.
It has been 10 years since we moved out and suddenly, Julie decided I needed therapy. I told her I would go but only if she let me do it alone. I feel I have to mention, now, that I call my mother Julie because it just sounds better, to me, than calling her mom. I think it used to throw people off when I was younger.
The old man who I assume is the therapist enters the room, cutting me off mid-thought. I check my body language. These therapists are always looking for body language, I hear. I sit up straight, uncross my legs, and smile, only showing a few teeth. I don’t stand up immediately to shake his hand. Instead I just half wave and slowly raise up, keeping my distance, with my hands crossed behind my back.
I follow him into his little therapy room and scan over every inch with my eyes. I imagined a bland, off-white room with serene images and cozy, warm colors. What I am presented with now is quite different: It is dark. Dark red walls and big brown leather chairs with fuzzy navy blankets thrown over them. The paintings that cover the far wall are a mess of brush strokes that seem to form images of people in varying poses. He has tons of silly looking trinkets covering the desk and bookshelf; so many that you can hardly see his collection of books through the clutter.
I turn back toward the door and lock eyes with the old man. He smiles a big, warm smile and motions for me to sit down on one of the large chairs, so without hesitation, I do.