Today was my first appointment with my new therapist, who I would have sessions with after I left the Center. Dr. Jones had come out to the Center today, but after I was discharged next week, I’d see her in her office instead. She was an attractive woman in her forties with sleek dark hair and small wire-framed glasses, and I expected her to be just like all the other therapists I’d talked to in the last few months. At first, I liked her well enough, but some of her questions were annoying. Like this one. “I don’t know. It’s just a way to describe how I feel. I don’t really think I’m demon-possessed or anything.” “I didn’t think you did. I was just wondering why you chose the word ‘demons’.” “I don’t know. It just feel like demons. When the thoughts are in my head, I mean.” “You mean thoughts and memories of the rape?” I felt a familiar shudder of fear and nausea—as I always did when that night flashed though my conscious mind—but I pushed it back to the little dark corner the way I’d learned to do.
