Page 7 of Letters From A Stalker

There are times when sessions like Daniel's push the old anger that burns beneath my skin to the surface, reminding me that control is not something a person conquers once and never thinks about again. It’s a choice that has to be made repeatedly, especially on the days when letting go would feel easier. Those are the days when control matters most.

I exhale once more then get up and turn toward my desk. Every therapist develops some kind of ritual between patients. Some make coffee. Some stare out the window until their next appointment arrives. Mine has always been paperwork, not because I particularly enjoy reducing an hour of someone's life to clinical language, but because it forces me to leave one patient behind before another walks through the door. And because memory has a habit of softening the sharp edges. Behavior doesn't.

I wake my laptop, open Daniel's file, and begin documenting the session while every hesitation, every shift in posture, every carefully chosen word is still fresh enough that I don't have to reconstruct it later.

Externalization of responsibility.

Limited emotional insight.

Continued minimization of abusive behavior.

I stop for a second before typing the final recommendation.

Continue challenging cognitive distortions surrounding accountability. Explore impact of emotional dysregulation on a minor child.

Clinical language has a remarkable way of making devastation sound almost ordinary. A father teaches his daughter to fear the sound of breaking glass, and somewhere along the way it becomes emotional dysregulation affecting a minor.

I save the note before I have time to dwell on it at the same time a soft knock sounds against my office door, followed almost immediately by the handle turning.

"You're getting predictable."

I don't bother looking up. "So are you."

"You forgot lunch again."

That gets my attention. I glance at the paper bag she sets on my desk before looking back at her.

"I was going to eat."

"Eventually."

"That was the plan."

"It usually is."

Mara folds her arms, studying me with the same expression she has perfected over the last six years, somewhere between office manager, older sister, and disappointed parent. Most people assume she works for me. Technically, they're right. In reality, she spends at least half of every workday making sure I remember to function like a normal human being.

"I'm capable of feeding myself."

"I'm sure you are.” She all but snorts, adjusting her big round glasses and pushing a strand of wild curly hair behind her ear.

"I am."

She nods toward the untouched bag. "Then prove it."

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself.

"There it is," she says immediately.

"What?"

"You smiled."

"I tolerated you."

"Barely."

"Exactly."