Page 27 of Shattered Obsession

Her words wrap around my heart, but thoughts of safety make my throat ache anew. “I don’t want him—Damian—to win,” I whisper, the weight of my past heavy on my chest. “I refuse to let the rest of my life be overshadowed by his actions.”

My therapist smiles softly. “And he won’t. Just by being here today, voicing your truth, you’re already taking steps toward reclaiming your life. Together, we’ll work on grounding techniques, on learning how to discern the present from the past so that you can begin to recover those lost parts of yourself.”

The possibility of healing doesn’t feel utterly unattainable. It’s still terrifying, still raw, but perhaps, just perhaps, achievable.

“Thalia, what you’re describing—the panic during moments of intimacy, the sensation of being yanked back into the past—isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s your body’s way of remembering. Trauma manifests in the nervous system. The good news? We can retrain it.”

“How do we do that?”

“First, we focus on grounding. Using simple tools to remind your body that you’re in the present. These will act as lifelines and anchors when panic begins to rise.” She lays them out gently for me, like steppingstones across a turbulent river. Breathing exercises to center myself, grounding through my five senses, and employing physical grounding techniques.

She hands me a smooth river stone. Cool, solid, weighty.

“Describe it,” she instructs.

“Cold,” I whisper. “Hard. Real.” Unlike memories.

“They tell your body, ‘I’m here, I’m safe, and this isn’t happening again’.” I nod, swallowing hard, trying to envision how these could truly help me. “Now, with intimacy, the key lies in control. You need to know you have choices. Your ‘no’ must be respected unequivocally, and you must feel empowered to stop at any point without fear of reprisal.”

A lump rises in my throat at the thought. “Xander already does that. He always asks, always checks in with me. But I still panic.”

“That’s because your body doesn’t trust you yet,” she responds gently. The phrase stings. I never thought of my body as something separate from me, but she’s right. It reacts before I can think, jumping, freezing, and curling in on itself like a wounded animal. I keep apologizing to Xander for it, as if my instincts are bad manners I should unlearn. Maybe trust isn’t about forgiving him; maybe it’s about forgiving myself for surviving the only way I knew how. “This isn’t about him failing to do something right; it’s about your nervous system continuing to exist in a state of survival. Our work together will focus on rebuilding that trust with your own body.”

I blink rapidly, tears lurking once more. “What will that look like?”

“Start small,” she advises. “Intimacy doesn’t have to equate to sex. It can mean sitting closely together, holding hands, or simply cuddling. Even just lying next to each other fully clothed can offer a safe space to practice touch.” Images of Xander’s arm around me at night surface, his thumb tracing tender circles into my palm when I spiral into panic—such moments already feel like a beacon of hope.

“When you’re ready, you and Xander can explore sensate focus,” she explains. “It’s a gradual process, an exploration of touch without the pressure to perform. Set a timer for these special minutes where you simply explore each other’s skin, no expectations weighing you down. It’s about curiosity, not performance. About finding pleasure without fear.”

I never realized how much intimacy was about control until I lost all of mine.

With Xander, every moment is a choice.

My choice.

My face flushes, not from shame but from a blossoming sense of hope.

“And remember,” she adds, “you control the pace. You can stop whenever you need to. Celebrate those small victories. Feeling safe during a kiss or while holding hands is genuine progress. Every step matters.”

I lean back, allowing her words to sink deeply into my soul. It still feels overwhelming, yet it appears less insurmountable than before. Perhaps sex doesn’t have to be a never-ending battlefield. Maybe it’s possible to want it again, to enjoy it without the shadows of fear chasing me.

“Thalia, you’re not broken. Hope hurts. It pricks like a needle waking a limb that’s gone numb. You’ve endured hurt, but your body, your intimacy, and your joy still belong to you. You can reclaim them.”

Belief feels dangerous, fragile, like a thin sheet of ice that might splinter under my weight. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold something broken together.

Healing isn’t loud; it’s quiet and slow. Grain by grain instead of all at once.

Xander believes I’m strong. My therapist believes I can heal.

I just want to believe I’m not damaged beyond repair.

CHAPTER TEN

-Thalia-

The door clicks shut behind me, a resonant sound that echoes in the stillness outside. The air hits my skin like a sudden jolt, crisp and biting, and I momentarily flinch at its intensity. I feel as if I’ve just completed a marathon, my body heavy, weighed down by an exhaustion that seeps into my bones. Xander stands a few feet away, and the instant he sees me, he rises as if pulled by an invisible string. His eyes search mine, a gentle yet steady intensity that offers an unspoken promise. My body feels hollowed out, scraped clean by confession. I didn’t realize truth could leave bruises too.

“Hey,” he says, the single word imbued with warmth and concern. I try to respond, but my voice feels trapped, so I simply nod. I reach out, slipping my fingers into his. There’s no need for words; his presence alone comforts me as he guides me to the car, opening the door with a familiar gesture that provides a strange sense of normalcy amidst the chaos swirling inside me.