Page 38 of None Of Your Business

“You’re not,” she says. “You do every exercise I give you. Usually more. You work when you should rest, and you show up here on days I’d rather you cancel. Your problem isn’t a lack of effort.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You don’t know when you’re allowed to stop.”

My knuckles turn white against the table’s blue vinyl. “I’m not walking around carrying proof that I’m broken. I’d rather crawl.”

Naomi sighs. “Just think about it.”

“Uh-huh,” I mutter, grabbing my bag.

“This was a heavy session,” she warns as I sling the strap over my shoulder. “You need to rest this evening. No studio time. Strictly light movement.”

“I can’t,” I blurt. “I have therapy.”

She stares at me, caught off guard.

Everyone in my life knows my lifelong aversion to talking about my feelings or admitting anything is wrong.

“Oh,” Naomi says. “Well… that’s really good.”

I adjust the bag on my good shoulder. “Yeah. It’s working.”

I conveniently leave out the detail that it only fixes my creative block and does nothing for my real problems.

“Then obviously go, but rest immediately afterward. No staying up until dawn working. Deal?”

“Deal.”

I limp out of the clinic, my face burning. I feel like an imposter. I’m not hurt enough for a cane, but I’m too hurt to walk in a straight line.

I sit in my car, my hands shaking on the steering wheel.

I have therapy in an hour. Therapy I don’t belong in.

I’ve been nervous about going back all week, so last night I curled up in bed and Googled “Dr. Hudson Vaughn.”

In my defense, I was curious. Hudson is infuriating and invasive, watching people through secret glass when he isn’t carrying drunk women home.

Turns out, he’s also a huge deal. He’s won major clinical research awards, and the more I read, the more my stomach twisted.

Most of his studies track variables to determine how a disaster happened—pinpointing the exact moment the first fracture occurred. His latest study followed survivors of severe suicide attempts. Reading the raw data at two in the morning was heavy, but the long-term follow-ups brought real light.

Two participants didn’t make it to the end of the five-year study. Seeing that cold line in the appendix made me sob into my pillow. But the vast majority remained engaged in treatment throughout the program, and they were still doing significantly better years later.

I don’t know why I was reading dense medical journals in the dark, but I saw a glimpse of who he is in the work. And now I’m deeply embarrassed that I’ve been treating his high-stakes clinical environment like my personal art residency.

A hot tear slips down my cheek. I brush it away quickly, annoyed by the sudden wave of emotion.

I check the time. If I leave now, I’ll be twelve minutes early.

Gross.

Naomi told me to go home, and my hip agrees. Instead, I’m driving across town to attend couples therapy, even though I’m in a more committed relationship with ibuprofen than with any human being.

I start the engine anyway.

All because sitting in a room full of unhappy strangers somehow made me want to paint again.