“I believed everything he told me. And then after a while, even after he left and I knew better, so much time had passed I didn’t want to bring it up. It was easier for me to pretend. I just acted as though it didn’t happen, so I would never have to explain to them what actually did. I was scared of the way they would look at me, that they would blame me for letting it happen. I just . . . couldn’t.”
“What happened wasn’t your fault, Cassie. You need to understand that.”
I swallow and offer her a slight dip of my head.
“Cassie, I need you to look at me.” Aubrey’s tone is firm and demanding.
Tearing my eyes from the view of the carpet, I raise them to meet hers, equally as unwavering as her voice. She leans forward and repeats, “It wasn’t your fault.”
Aubrey’s face is blurry through my tears. “I know.”
She cocks her head. “Do you?”
“I do,” I assure her. “I mean, I get that there was nothing I could do at that age to stop him. The only thing I could do was what I was told, so that’s what I did, what I’ve been doing, for the past fifteen years. But even with that knowledge, it doesn’t seem to make it any easier. It still happened. I still feel him touching me. I still feel the disgust and humiliation that followed once I realized what had actually happened. Because I didn’t know.”
My head bobs from side to side. It’s so surreal, so strangely freeing, to be saying these things aloud. Words and thoughts I’ve had ruminating in my head for years.
More tears surface, replacing the ones escaping my eyes as I decide to give her everything. Because Uncle Alan’s secret wasn’t the only one I’ve been keeping. I’ve also been hiding the shame felt with my own. The words tumble from my mouth, for fear I will never find the courage to release them again.
“I didn’t know what he was doing was wrong. I trusted him when he told me it wasn’t. I didn’t recognize it then, but when I grew older and finally understood . . . I was no longer innocent. I felt dirty. I felt sick. Grotesque. It had been wrong. It changed me.” I take a deep breath. Aubrey waits patiently. “So I did my best to cope with those feelings by taking ownership of my own body. Sex, and any feelings of pleasure associated with it, were given by me, not taken. And each time it happened, I felt empowered, relieved I still had some sort of control. But soon after would come the loathing and self-hatred, overshadowing my relief. It was an endless, whirling cycle that dictated my life for many years.”
Aubrey’s expression is thoughtful as she takes in my account, then she gives me an encouraging nod. “Again. A completely normal response. Nothing you have done, Cassie, is wrong. Like you said, you did the best to cope in the only way you knew how. It’s how you survived. And I think now that you’re older, we can work on finding different ways to deal with your past. With the anger. With the remorse. With the violation of both your body and your trust.”
She smiles and adds, “With a healthier, more healing approach, we can help you move past the pain, instead of simply masking it. It won’t be easy. Some days will be more difficult than others, but I’m willing to lead you, if you’re ready.”
She looks at me intently. “Your willingness is the key to your healing. You have to want to travel that path with me. I can’t help you unless you want to be helped.”
I look at her, her expression filled with determination and strength, and I know that if anyone can help guide me to where I want to be, it’s Dr. Aubrey Miller.
“I’m ready.” My voice is strong and resolute with my answer.
“Good,” she replies. “Then I have a homework assignment for you. When you’re ready.”
Her mouth lifts at the corners. “The first step toward healing is the most difficult, and it may seem a little crazy, but you have to trust me on this.”
I love the way she calmly assesses my reaction. I remain silent, unfazed by her statement, because I’m ready to do whatever it takes. Presumably after gauging that in my expression, she explains, “You need to look inward and make peace with that eight-year-old little girl inside of you. Find her and say the things that need to be said, whatever they may be, so she may be released from her own pain. It’s her agony and terror that you feel, not twenty-three-year-old Cassie’s. Twenty-three-year-old Cassie knows what happened and has created coping strategies, some not as helpful as others, but eight-year-old Cassie is still bound by her fears, unable to break through because of the uncertainty of what she has experienced. You are the only one who can reach her, who can soothe her, and ultimately, who can free her. Once you do that, then your true healing can begin.”
Aubrey grins and laughs under her breath. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
My own smile breaks free and I shake my head.
“No, I’ve seen her,” I admit. “I just couldn’t get to her.”
I wouldn’t even know what to say to her.
I feel so guilty.
Another reassuring grin from Aubrey. “That’s because you weren’t ready then. Now you are. And I’ll help you find the right words she needs to hear.”
The meaning of her words, and her unwavering belief in them as she speaks, furthers the fledgling sensation of hope. Could I do this? Reclining into my seat, I reflect on the ease of her statement. I look over her shoulder at the magnificent image of the burning sun.
I know it won’t be easy, but I refuse to live like this any longer.
Focusing on that sun, everything slows and I find I’m no longer falling.
My feet hit the ground, strong and steady, and as though landing on a piece of flint, a spark is ignited by the strength of their impact. It twists upward, carrying with it a glimmer of light, and as I watch it float in front of my eyes, power surges and clarity sharpens my mind.
I am stronger than him.
I will find the Cassie of my youth, and I will free her.
I will heal us both.
And after that, I will forever emerge from the darkened hollows of my mind . . .
My own victor.
And I won’t have to do it alone.
I’m no longer alone.
COURAGE CAN BE SUCH a fleeting emotion. One moment, you feel it rising in your blood, strengthening your resolve as it prepares you to face your greatest fears. The next, it recedes like the tide of the ocean, leaving you bereft, uncertain of its existence in the first place.
I head home the first day after meeting with Aubrey, convinced I will find that little girl inside me and set her free. But as soon as I step into my apartment, cold fear slithers its way into my mind, weakening me to the point that I don’t even try.
What will I say when I find her?
Will she decline my offer and choose to stay in the darkness forever, thereby locking me in with her?
Will she be able to forgive me?
Will she hate me?
This last question seals the deal, and I find myself absolutely petrified to learn the answer. So I choose not to ask. I do it the first time, the second, the third . . .
It takes me five sessions with Aubrey to finally lock on to that courage and manage to keep hold.
She never pushes me, though. Each time she asks if I’ve made my peace, only to receive a negative shake of my head as my answer, she simply offers an encouraging dimpled smile and states with full certainty, “She will forgive you, Cassie. She wants to be set free just as much as you want her to be free. That little girl needs and wants you. Her little hands are eager to hold on to you, to reach you, be held by you. You can tell her it was wrong. He was wrong. She was a good little girl. Always.”
Well, I’m there now.
Literally.
I’m in my bathroom, courage piqued and pumping through my veins as I stare at my own reflection, searching for the little girl lost inside me. My breaths are deep in attempt to calm myself, to relax to the point that I can focus my energy where it needs to be in order to find her.
Much to my surprise, it doesn’t take long.
I watch, tr
ansfixed, as my face morphs in the mirror. The bones in my cheeks are no longer angular and drawn, but hidden behind the rounded flesh of my youth. My eyes are the same deep brown as they stare back at me, but they are no longer lifeless. They’re filled with vigor and excitement. Joy. Following suit, my mouth is curved slightly upward at its edge, lifting into a meek smile as we make our re-acquaintance.
I lift my arm, splaying my fingers on the coolness of the glass just to touch her face. To remember her as she should be. Full of joy and strength. Not shackled in the darkness, terrified and alone.
Her smile remains, but mine falls and moisture begins to build along the base of my lashes.
“I just left you there.”
Guilt consumes me, washing over me completely, and my chin quivers violently with the admission. I remove my hand and look to the counter below me.
“I should have protected you. I just . . . I wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t know what to do. I felt so helpless. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The whispers turn into chants as I focus on the linoleum. Tears of remorse stream down my face, falling from my cheeks and striking the tops of my hands as they continue to steady me.
And just when I’m about to give up, when I’ve convinced myself of my inability to completely free her from the chains of fear and sorrow, a gentle rush of warmth fills my chest. It spreads slowly, blissfully sealing the open gash carved into my heart by my own guilt and blame long ago. I gasp, the sensation startling, and bring my eyes back to the mirror.
My youth stares back at me, a lilting smile on her face and her eyes as bright as I remember. “It’s not your fault.”
Tears stream down my cheeks as she continues. “I didn’t like what he did to me. I was scared. My fairies . . . my fairies didn’t protect me. But . . . but you’re here with me now.”
Another wave of peace rolls through me, her words resounding as they cauterize my gaping wounds. I’ve allowed myself to think them, to hear Aubrey state them, but coming from her, I finally accept them.
Her grin widens, displaying the new teeth she hasn’t yet grown into. “You survived while you kept me hidden. Don’t you see? You did protect me from him. And now that you’ve found me again, I’m not scared anymore. I’m ready to leave this place and go play. I can be happy now.”
I dip my head at my reflection and exhale. Through the tears, a relieved smile crosses my face and I jerk my head to the side, signaling for her to go. She giggles, infusing me with comfort. It sweeps through me, mending anything the previous two passes might have missed, and as it continues to expand, I breathe in deeply.
I’m no longer broken, the tattered pieces of my former self.
I’m whole as her soul weaves in between and fuses with mine, completing the first of many steps toward healing. Her essence interlaces with mine, lifting me with her strength, relieving the weight I’ve carried for so long.
Her image fades, leaving me staring back at my own reflection, but I’m not alone. Her vivacious spirit flows powerfully through my veins.
And her smile, well, she left that with me.
I silently thank her for the beauty of her gift, then practically skip my way out of the bathroom, settled on beginning the next phase of healing as planned with Aubrey just earlier today.
My love for reading has come up in several of our discussions. I was surprised to find that we have read many of the same authors. Often we find ourselves comparing our favorite books, debating the strengths and weaknesses of different heroes and heroines, and quoting the lines read so often they’re etched forever in our minds.
Grady was right.
She’s not only my psychiatrist.
In Dr. Miller, in Aubrey, I feel as though I’ve found a friend.
And because of those friendly conversations, I’m following her suggestion to write down how I feel, describe how I felt at particular times in my life. Her idea being that if I put my feelings on paper, it would help me sift through the feelings, making them easier to address.
But I’ve decided to take a different approach.
There are things that need to be said.
Explanations provided.
Apologies given.
And reasons demanded.
This part of my healing will consist of four separate letters, delivered to the recipients in the same order written.
I open the bag sitting on my dresser and pull out both the stationery and new pen I bought before I came home. The tips of my fingers graze the plastic encasing as I set it down, knowing that this step, once taken, cannot be undone. After I reveal my darkness, it’s out there and there’s no taking it back.
I’m surprisingly okay with that knowledge, because in sharing my past, I know I will only become stronger as I acknowledge what happened, the repercussions, and the aftermath.
I will heal.
Next I remove four lavender-scented candles from the bag, lighting each one and placing them randomly around my room. The closest is on my bedside table, right next to Roger. I pat his head and apologize, because something tells me the fragrance is just too girly for a manly man such as himself.
I imagine his beady eyes rolling into his head, and I chuckle as I take a seat on my bed, stationery now in hand. After opening it, I set the pile of paper in front of me and prepare to unleash my heart on paper.
With my legs bent at the knees, I lean to grab the first sheet, place it to fit perfectly onto the magazine sticking to my thighs, and then . . .
I write.
Dear Spencer,
First, I would like to apologize for the amount of distance I’ve put between us lately. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but that didn’t stop you from incessantly checking on me and trying to make me laugh. Just one of the reasons I love you like mad.
I’m back now, though. Fully present for the first time in a really long time. And I thank you for having the patience to stick by my side while giving me the time I needed to sort through my life.
You may be wondering at this point why I’m writing you a letter instead of telling you what I’m about to tell you in person. Part of the reason is I made a very important decision this week that will forever change me and my course in life, and this letter is a crucial part in helping me do just that.
The other part isn’t as easy to admit however, because the truth is, I’m scared. I’m scared of what your reaction will be to what I’m about to share with you. I’m scared you will look at me differently, or that it will change our relationship. Our friendship.
Yet, as fearful as I am of that happening, I need to do this, not only for me, but for you as well. You deserve my honesty. You deserve to know the truth. You told me the day we met that friends don’t keep secrets, and I feel I’ve failed you in doing that. Because in keeping certain parts of my past hidden, I feel I’ve misled you. I’ve allowed you to believe you were friends with a person who didn’t really exist, and I’m sincerely sorry for that.
You have always been truthful with me, upfront about your own past and fears. I have admired you for possessing that incredible amount of confidence and strength for so long. It shines like a beacon, on clear display for everyone around you to see. So often I would look at you and wish I could be more like you. You didn’t cower; you didn’t hide. You faced your fears head-on, while I pushed mine to the side, pretending they didn’t exist or masking the pain they inflicted. Smiling to hide my tears. Laughing so I wouldn’t scream. Talking to avoid the silence. Having random sex with countless partners for nothing other than validation.
But I refuse to do that, to be that, anymore. And in writing this letter, I am taking my first step toward that goal. By the end of this, you will know everything. You will know my secrets. My darkness. And it will be your decision, as it should have been all along, whether or not you still want to be my friend.
So, here goes . . .
I’m not sure if you remember my uncle Alan, but he stayed with my family briefly when you and I were
around eight years old, just after your dad died. I’m sure I mentioned his name at some point because I was completely enchanted by him when we first met. He was one of my favorite people, until he wasn’t.
Uncle Alan molested me, Spence. For the six months he resided in our basement, he would visit me often in the middle of the night. I won’t go into specifics, because they are unnecessary and well, it’s pretty obvious what happened.
One day he up and left with no explanation, and I never saw him again. His presence, though, was inescapable. Everywhere I looked, he was there. Every time I shut my eyes, he appeared.
God, Spence. The dreams. They were so vivid, so real, so unavoidable. Even though he was gone, he wasn’t, and even though the abuse had stopped, it hadn’t. Not in my mind, not in my nightmares. It would happen over and over and over again, for years.
I’m sure you noticed the changes in me. I’m sure you wondered why I started showing up in the middle of the night, knocking at your window. But as always with you, you just accepted it, accepted me, without question. Your light is what drew me, but it was your friendship that made me feel safe, truly safe, on those nights when I would come over, searching for some sort of haven from the terror. You could have had no way of knowing at that time that you, your friendship, were the only things keeping me sane.
You never passed judgement on me, or my extremely questionable actions. You never pushed me to explain why I made the choices I made, that I continued to make, for years. You loved me for me being me, even though I had no idea who I even was, and you did this for years. I cannot begin to thank you enough for that.
A little over two months ago, on your birthday actually, when Dalton was shot, I received a call from my mother telling me that Uncle Alan had died and his body had been brought back to Fuller to be buried. That was the “family emergency” I told you about. I was forced to attend his funeral, and let’s just say, I lost it. I completely shut down after that. I did a lot that I’m not proud of over the next several weeks, including pushing you away. The only explanation I have is that I wasn’t in a good place, and I was so scared I would somehow drag you into my own darkness. I would never be able to forgive myself for doing that to you. So, I hope you understand and can forgive me for making that choice.
Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) Page 22
