Page 55 of Letters From A Stalker

“What did you send?”

“Eventually? ‘I’m glad everything went well.’”

“Nothing else?”

She shakes her head. “No apology. No explanation. No three paragraphs about why I forgot.”

“How did that feel?” I ask, my tone careful but curious.

She considers it. “Good for about six seconds. Then horrible. Then good again. Then I got busy at work and forgot to keep feeling guilty, which I assume is not the therapeutic method you recommend.”

“It’s surprisingly effective.” I nod approvingly.

A quiet laugh leaves her.

“And your mother?”

“She responded with a thumbs-up.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Exactly.” Julia looks at me for a second, then nods.

There is strength in her that has nothing to do with endurance. I saw pieces of it during our first session, mostly in the way she challenged me whenever she felt pushed too far, but last week blurred that picture. Watching her disappear made vulnerability easier to see than everything surrounding it. That was my mistake. Julia isn’t fragile. She has simply spent years confusing strength with how much she can carry without asking someone else to help hold it. Those are not the same thing.

“You know,” I say, setting the pen against the notepad, “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit for how strong you actually are.”

Her eyes lift immediately. The compliment appears to make her more uncomfortable than anything else we’ve discussed.

Before she can answer, I add, “You dissociated after accessing material you’ve avoided for decades. That doesn’t erase everything else you are. But, you also function at a high level in an environment that requires competence, judgment and assertiveness. You’ve built a career, maintained relationships, you own your home and apparently spend a substantial amount of time rescuing attorneys from themselves.”

Her smile comes easier this time.

“Your difficulty isn’t strength, Julia. It appears much more specific than that.”

“With people I love.” She adds and I nod.

“Yes.”

She looks toward the window again, quieter now. “Because saying no at work doesn’t mean somebody stops loving me.”

There it is. I don’t need to add anything and neither does she. The silence sits between us for several seconds before Julia shifts in the chair and clears her throat.

“Although apparently I’m capable of saying no to people I might actually like too.”

My attention sharpens. “Meaning?”

She paused for a bit, as if she’s considering whether to share this interesting piece of information with me or not. And the fact that I find it interesting for all the wrong reasons doesn’t phase me at all. Especially since I notice a glow in her eyes that I haven’t seen so far.

Go on, little ember.

“One of the partners at the firm asked me out.” She blurts out and briefly bites her lip again. So briefly that a long lost professional in me wouldn’t even catch it, but I did. My pen stops. It shouldn’t, but it does.

I keep my face neutral, my voice steady. “And what did you say?”

“No.”

The tension eases so quickly it irritates me. That reaction is not clinical. It isn’t even remotely justifiable.