February, 24th 2009
9:01 AM

‘How are you today, Sophia?’ asked George, my therapist, who always started each session with the same question.
And I always replied the same way. ‘I’m fine.’
Except today, I wasn’t fine. But I wasn’t sure how to put my feelings into words and I didn’t really want to talk to him about it; so I just shrugged. He raised his right eyebrow then started jotting things down on his paper, as if my difference in response meant something. I mean, it did, but how could he know that?
‘Is today a good day or a bad day for you, Sophia?’ He always used my name when he spoke, as if he was talking to a child who would turn their attention somewhere else if someone didn’t speak to them directly.
But I’m not a child; I’m nearly seventeen! But I guess the fact that we had been in therapy for the past few months and he had still got nothing out of me, probably made him think I wasn’t worth being talked to equally. Like he held a grudge against me cause I wouldn’t open up and tell him my complete life story.
So I just played his little game and replied, ‘Today hasn’t really started yet,’
It was true, I was right. Nine o’clock in the morning wasn’t much of a day to judge if you ask me.
He continued to write on his pad of paper until he said, ‘is there anything in specific, Sophia, that you’d like to talk about today?’
That question was harder to answer. But I just smiled, sat up, and replied ‘No sir.’
‘Sir?’ he questioned, while staring at me, waiting for an answer.
He had never talked to me about something other than myself, not that this was much of a change, but in my book it definitely counted for something. Also, he didn’t address me in his usual manner. Maybe I should start including his name in every reply, see how he liked it.
After I didn’t answer for a few moments, he coughed, clearing his throat, and continued on with the normal questions. I didn’t want him to know about what happened. Would he ever learn?
‘How’d it go today, honey?’ my mother asked as she slipped me a quick hug.
‘Good, Mom.’ I smiled back. Even though I wasn’t in the best mood, treating my mother the way I treated George earlier wouldn’t have helped much. She could tell that was all I wanted to talk about when it came to therapy; we had done enough talking for the day.
March 3rd 2009
2:02 PM

‘So what’s with this new time thing?’ I asked, continuing with his trend from yesterday of talking about things other than me in therapy. He urgently called my mother last night to change our appointment the next day to the afternoon. It was weird to both of us; my sessions had always been at nine o’clock in the morning. Sharp.
‘I believe that you had trouble answering one of my questions yesterday, because of the time of our meeting,’ he explained, ‘I thought this change would help.’
I smiled, he actually seemed like a real person for once now that he used humor. But he continued with his usual questions, I only muttered answers when necessary.
‘So?’ he said it so fast and so normally, that I didn’t know what to say. He had always asked me questions that could easily be answered by one word. This was open, endless, and scary as hell. Thoughts ran around my head, memories and images fluttering around. This was not good.
And at that moment, I snapped. I broke down, crying. He said nothing. Minutes past until I could finally breathe again. I didn’t know what to say, but he did.
‘You know, it’s okay if you want to continue our sessions in silence, that’s practically how we went about it before this.’ He said.
I interrupted his sympathetic rambling. ‘N-n-no. No. I c-can’t do that anymore.’ I couldn’t believe the words coming from out of my mouth. Was this time shift the reason for my breakdown? I did not know, but whatever he had planned on, it worked.
He sat there and continued to console me until I got complete hold of myself and started my story.
‘I-I-I was raped.’ From them on I couldn’t shut up, everything I was holding back came rushing out. And even though it had been seven months, I remembered everything.
Poor George, did he think this was better than my silence? Throwing memories at him, yelling and crying at the same time, how could this be better?
But this wasn’t about him, this was about me. I felt better. For the first time, I felt good.