My breath slows slightly from recognition. I stand there, taking it in, letting my eyes adjust, letting my thoughts try to catch up to the feeling settling under my skin. “This is—” I start, then stop.
“You were always going to end up here, so I had this room prepared for you.” He caresses my lower back. “EMDR—eye movement desensitization and reprocessing.”
“I—I’ve done like one session. It’s supposedto be really good,” I say, blown away that he even knows what it is. “Like years’ worth of therapy in a much shorter time.”
“You have the full kit now,” he explains. “See?” He gestures to a long, thin rectangle that looks like a lightbulb attached to a tripod, as well as some headphones and a few other gadgets. “We’ll figure out what works best—auditory, visual, tactile. It’s all here. You don’t have to think about any of it.”
I run my fingers over some of the items, trying to figure out how they all fit together.
“You’re safe here,” he says. “To process your innermost thoughts and feelings. I won’t interfere with your sessions. I’m not Adrian. I involve myself where it matters, but I cross the line at spying on your therapy. This isyourspace.” He pauses. “I don’t need to listen in to know what you’re thinking, anyway. I’ve arranged some potential therapists specializing in EMDR. This room will be for you and whoever you choose.”
I squint at him. His code of ethics is questionable—he’ll snoop through my phone, but he won’t listen to me talk to my therapist?
I guess—if I’m going to try this out, which I really, really want to—I’m going to take his word for it. Hell, I’ve told him pretty much everything I would tell a therapist during EMDR anyway. Definitely more when it comes to sexual stuff. But this—this is about revisiting trauma and processing it in real time.
Recognition hits. “Is this because I had a nightmare and said… his name out loud?”
A shadow passes over Soren’s face. “No. Not only because of that.”
I quirk a brow. “Really? Be honest. Because the timing is curious.”
He sighs and glances away, as if he’s been caught. Because clearly, he has. “Well, it was on my list of things to get for you. But that moved the timeline up. Expedited things. But not the thought. That was always there. You don’t always notice when things are affecting you.” He pauses. “I do.”
I glance around at the items again.
“Here,” he says, handing me a printout.
I scan its contents, and it’s full of therapists listed as specializing in EMDR. Seeing a pattern, I smirk. “Only females, I see.”
“You know that was never a question.” He shrugs, his expression serious. “I don’t need you giving that to another man. That’s my job. They don’t need access to you like that.”
I shake my head. “Soren, this is really kind of you. But you shouldn’t be buying me expensive therapy equipment to makeyoufeel better. That’s… kind of fucked up, don’t you think?”
“I got it to helpyou, Ivy.” The looks in his eyes is steady. Certain. “And if by you feeling better, it makes me feel better, it works for both of us.”
“You’re getting dangerously close to telling me I need to heal, Soren. I might start referring to you as Adrian if you keep it up.” I scowl, unable to help myself. His ‘assistance’ has hit a nerve. “We really need to work on boundaries. I need to be able to pick my own treatments, in my own time. I need to know you’re not spying on me. That I can leave the house whenever I want. Including to see a male therapist if I wish!”
Truth be told, I have no desire to see a male therapist—I prefer female medical practitioners in general—but it’s the principle of the situation. His entitlement at determining the gender of the specialists I get to see—I don’t like it. But I’m not ready to step away.
“What if the best EMDR specialists in the world all happened to be men?” I ask, pushing it further, the hypothetical burgeoning my rage. “What then, Soren?”
He puts his hands up. “Ivy, that’s not how it works. There are plenty of women who are spectacular at EMDR. Very accomplished.”
I smirk. “Very feminist of you.”
And I leave it at that. I’ve had enough.
The room suddenly feels overbearing.
I do want to try the treatment—I really do. Maybe it will sort out the bonfire that rages in my mind once and for all.
But he can wait.
I’m sick of men telling me to heal. Even when it’s under the guise of doing what’s in my best interests.
Especially then.
He can set up the fanciest therapy room in the entire world, but it doesn’t mean I’m just going to let all my walls down and pour my innermost thoughts out again.