She gives me a big hug and smile when I walk into her office. I take off my shoes and settle into her big, comfy brown couch. I know she can tell by my energy I really need to talk. “How are you, Lexie?” “Shitty, Ellen, but you already know that.” She smiles, and I love that I can be honest with her. “I know this is a rough time of year for you.” I started seeing Ellen at the end of the summer last year, a few months after Brady died. “Yeah. And I’m not dealing very well with all the memories I’m having.” “Are you having nightmares? Or flashbacks?” “I’ve had a few nightmares lately.” Or every other night this week, I think, but I don’t offer that up. I refuse to acknowledge my memories as flashbacks. I don’t have PTSD or anything like that. Ellen knows my feelings about this and doesn’t push. “What are the nightmares about?”
