When I awakened two hours later, my stomach was rumbling, and my head had begun to pound. Rising, I decided I could at least try to eat something for dinner. I reached for the food journal I’d left lying on my bedside table. As I retrieved it, I found the notebook Royce had given me peeking out from beneath the bed. Staring at the blue cover for a few seconds, I wrestled with whether to leave it laying there. I only hesitated for another moment before bending to pick it up.
With a sigh, I plopped onto the bed and pulled my pen free from the spiral of the food journal. Opening the therapy notebook to the first page, I recorded the date. My first entry was only a few lines, but I felt better after I had finished. Tucking both it and my food journal beneath my arm, I left for the dining hall.
I found Royce standing just outside the closed double doors. My footsteps faltered at the sight of him, and I felt as if I’d just tried to swallow a bag of quarters. Spying me before I could turn around and run in the other direction, he straightened from the wall he’d been leaning against and started toward me.
I ran a hand through my hair and grimaced, finding it tangled and tousled from my nap. Luckily, we were alone in the hallway, as most everyone had gone inside the dining hall to eat.
“Hey,” he said, pausing just in front of me. “I just wanted to check on you after this afternoon’s session.”
Unable to help the scowl that followed his words, I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do you make it a habit to go checking up on all your patients?”
His nostrils flared, and I could tell I had finally started to annoy him. Amazingly, he didn’t respond in kind.
“Yes, actually,” he said. “The people I counsel are important to me … every single one. I just wanted you to know that no one is going to look at you differently because you walked out today. First sessions are hard for everyone. You aren’t the first to have a hard time, and you won’t be the last. I hope you’ll give group another try. It gets easier.”
Feeling like crap for snapping at him, I nodded. “I’ll be there on Monday.”
He smiled, and I couldn’t help but notice once again how gorgeous it made him … which only reminded me that I was standing next to a physically perfect man while looking like I’d just stepped off the Hot Mess Express.
“Great,” he replied. “The journal assignment for this weekend is to write a letter to your disorder, detailing what it has taken from you, what it has stopped you from achieving … but at the end, I want you to tell your disorder what you plan to do different going forward, and tell it how you plan to stop letting it rule your life. You don’t have to read it out loud if you don’t want, but I’d really like you to try to write it.”
That sounded about as fun as a root canal. Instead of voicing that aloud, I simply nodded again. I was probably starting to look like a freaking bobble-head doll.
“I’ll try,” I managed.
“That’s all I ask,” he said. “See you next week?”
He was staring at me, so I had no choice but to look at him, otherwise he would notice I kept avoiding it. I met his gaze and felt like an even worse person. I found nothing but genuine concern in his eyes. His words had been more than just something to say. He really did care.
Clearing my throat, I retrieved the notebook from beneath my arm and flipped it open. I read the words I’d just written out loud.
“Today, I almost gave in to the urge to induce vomiting after becoming upset at therapy. But I stopped myself at the last second, and decided to take a nap instead. I realized that I was only going to purge as a method of control over the feelings being in therapy caused me to have. This was the first time I’ve been able to resist purging while upset in about six months.”
Closing the notebook, I glanced up at him, my cheeks flaming hot in embarrassment. It was still difficult for me to talk about my disorder out loud.
“I also have OCD,” I added. “So …”
Royce nodded and smiled. “Good … that was good.”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t much.”
He placed a warm hand on my shoulder. “It was a step. The first ones are often the hardest. I’m glad for you.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, moving out of his reach and dislodging his hold on me.
Without another world or a look back, I retreated for the dining room.
Chapter Eight
The morning after my first group therapy session, I woke up feeling as if I’d been hit by a Mack truck. My entire body ached, my head pounded, and I felt as if I could burrow beneath the covers and sleep for at least twelve more hours. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen, because not long after I opened my eyes, Sheila appeared at my door with vitamins for me to take, along with a cup of water and a smile. I tried not to scowl at her, showing outwardly how much I hated her in that moment for being so chipper and full of energy first thing in the morning.
I knew the new anti-depressant was responsible for my current state of increased fatigue, so tried not to take it out on the sweet nurse. Dr. Iverson, on the other hand, might not be so lucky by the time I made it to my individual therapy session that afternoon.
A hot shower made me feel a bit better, so I pushed myself to power through the day. At breakfast I filled my plate with scrambled eggs, toast, and an apple; I ate the entire apple and took one bite of toast because I couldn’t resist. After logging the entry in my journal, I headed off to exercise with Dawn. Since I was feeling like crap, we settled for going to the gym with Derek, where we pedaled stationary bikes while discussing whether or not our night nurse was sleeping with the trainer, Randy.
Finding myself ravenous after the workout, I couldn’t resist stopping by the rec room and raiding the fridge before my therapy session. I shocked myself by eating an entire granola bar and drinking a little mini bottle of apple juice. The little chocolate chips in the bar tasted so good, I almost went back for a second one. It had been months since I’d allowed myself to have chocolate. It took every ounce of my will not to lick the wrapper before throwing it away. Surprisingly, I also neglected to read the label for the calorie count or sugar content.
I felt a bit better after that, arriving at therapy with a smidge more energy than I’d had this morning. It would seem forcing myself out of bed and powering through had been a good idea.
Dr. Iverson was waiting for me when I arrived at his office, seated behind a large, cherry wood desk with stacks of books and journals littering the surface.
“Hello, Kinsley,” he said with a warm smile, standing as I entered the room and closed the door.
Stepping around the desk, he fished a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. Then, he gestured toward two armchairs facing each other near a window. The room was warmer than the rest of the facility, which was good because out in the hall it felt like someone had set the air conditioner to ‘arctic’. It smelled masculine, like leather and whatever cologne he wore.
Dr. Iverson was tall and reed-slender, with short hair that had gone completely gray. In contrast, his face remained boyish, as if he’d stopped aging in his thirties … which made it hard to determine his actual age. The fact that he wore striped socks and Converse sneakers with his slacks, shirt, and tie made him even harder to figure out. He was like the cool teacher all the students call by his first name.
“Have a seat,” he murmured, retrieving a file and notepad from one of several small end tables scattered about the room.
I spotted my name on the file as I sat, finding the stiff-looking leather chair to be surprisingly broken-in and comfortable.
“So,” he began, flipping open my file and taking a second to scan it. “How are you settling in?”
I shrugged. “Well, I guess. I’ve met a few nice people. I’m doing the food journal and exercise plan.”
Glancing at me over the rims of his glasses, he cleared his throat. “How was group yesterday?”
Remembering the journal-reading session that had sent me to the bathroom in a fit of tears, I force
d down the lump rising up in my throat. My hands began to tremble in my lap, and I clutched my right hand with my left to still my twitchy fingers.
“Fine,” I lied.
Dr. Iverson pursed his lips. “Kinsley, we aren’t going to make any progress if you aren’t honest with me. I understand that you’ve been seeing Dr. Brown for a while and you trust her. You’ve only met me twice, and don’t know anything about me. Allow me to rectify the situation. I’m a Texas native, from the Dallas area. Like most homegrown Texans, I wanted to play football, but quickly discovered I wasn’t cut out for it. Too skinny. So, I took up swimming, something I became far more successful at—so successful that I earned a swimming scholarship to Michigan State University. The move up north was quite a shock for me. This Southern boy stayed up there just long enough to get a degree, and compete in a few NCAA swim championships. As soon as I got my degree, I came back home where the weather’s warmer and the girls are undeniably prettier. I met my wife while working toward my Master’s at Sam Houston. We got married and took turns working to put each other through our respective graduate schools. I have Bachelor and Master’s degrees in psychology, as well as a doctorate in clinical psychology. My wife accuses me of liking school more than an actual job, and I can’t disagree with her as I spent over a decade expanding my education. We have one son who attends Auburn University—he also sucks at football—and three dogs of indeterminate breed, because my wife likes to rescue mutts from shelters. There’s also a cat, though with the way he comes and goes as he pleases, I can’t actually say we own him. More like, he lives in our neighborhood and makes pit stops for food and a few back scratches when he’s in the mood. I’ve worked here at Willow Creek for seven years, and before that had several counseling and teaching jobs. This is, by far, my favorite job, which is why I’ve stayed so long and hope to retire here. Now … let’s talk about you.”
I wanted to tell Dr. Iverson that his life sounded far more interesting than mine, but knew he would see it as a deflection tactic.
“Okay,” I replied. “I guess you want to talk about my disorder.”
He shook his head. “Not today. I know enough about it for now … Obsessive Compulsive Disorder manifesting in your behavior as bulimia. Your obsession is controlling your weight; the compulsion is to purge. The bingeing behavior comes in when you’re stressed, which only triggers the cycle of obsession and compulsion all over again. No need to beat that horse to death. I know the ‘what’. Now I’d like to get to the ‘why’. I can only do that if I get to know you. Tell me about your life outside this place.”
Slouching a bit in the chair, I fought the urge to become defiant. It was a defense mechanism I’d used with Dr. Brown, one she’d seen through, and knew how to work around. Dr. Iverson was right; I was here because this place was my last resort, and we didn’t have time to mess around. It would be a waste of both my time and his.
“Well, I’m a student at UT and I’m getting a degree in Applied Mathematics.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Wow, that’s a tough major. What made you settle on that?”
I paused for a moment, thinking over his question. No one had ever asked me that before. Anyone who knew me, knew I was a math wiz, so the question seemed moot.
“Because I’m good at it,” I answered with a shrug. “Besides, the business and finance fields are dominated by men. It’s a personal goal of mine to be a part of changing that.”
Nodding, he scribbled a note on his pad. “That sounds ambitious. Are you a bit of an overachiever, Kinsley?”
His knowing smirk made me laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I’ve always been a straight-A student, the kind of kid who stayed out of trouble. Up until recently, I had a very active extracurricular life. I’ve been a cheerleader since I was in the seventh grade, so there’s that. Student council. Some volunteer stuff.”
“Sounds like you have a very busy life. You have time to socialize at all?”
“I try,” I replied. “Living in an apartment with four other people means I’m never alone. I hang out with them when I can. They’re good about reminding me to relax every now and then.”
“What about your love life? Got a boyfriend?”
Thinking of Aaron, I paused. Could he be considered my boyfriend? We weren’t officially back together, yet our last conversation led me to believe it was a definite possibility. He wanted me back, and I wanted him … I just needed this time to get myself together first.
“Yes,” I replied.
He paused, his pen hovering over his pad. His gaze flicked up to mine and he frowned. “You hesitated.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You so did,” he scoffed. “What’s up with this boyfriend?”
Sighing, I ran a hand through my hair. “We’re kind of not together, but we are.”
He smirked. “Ah. Say no more. I’m not so old that I can’t remember what that’s like. So, tell me about this guy. What kind of history do you have?”
“I met him freshman year. He was a junior at the time. We dated for three years, and then he broke up with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I was too predictable,” I replied, the pain of those words biting just as much as the first time Aaron had said them to me. “I was too controlling—or rather, too in control. We’d planned our entire lives together after my graduation, and I think it got to be too much for him. I was planning, because it’s what I do. He said he wanted forever, and I took it to mean I should begin organizing for that.”
Jotting down some more notes, Dr. Iverson nodded. “And now?”
I shrugged. “Now, he wants to get back together, but I obviously can’t do that. I’m not stable enough.”
Pausing again, he looked up at me, his eyebrows furrowing. “Not stable enough? If this young man really loves you, I would imagine he doesn’t care about your disorder.”
“Maybe not,” I replied. “But I don’t want to go back to him in pieces. I don’t think I’m in a good enough place to jump back into a relationship.”
His unblinking stare became unsettling as he observed me in silence for all of thirty seconds. After a while, I raised my eyebrows in challenge.
Finally blinking, he continued. “So … Aaron wants you back, and you asked him to wait until you get better. And that was for you, not him?”
Indignation caused my face to grow hot, and I sat up straighter in the chair. “Of course it’s for me. Didn’t you hear me say I’m not in a good enough place for a relationship? I need to get better before I can consider letting someone else into the picture.”
Maintaining his neutral tone of voice, he made another note. “Why are you being so defensive?” he murmured, keeping his eyes lowered to the pad, his pen moving rapidly over the page.
I shot to my feet, anger causing me to tremble. “I’m not being defensive, and you are insinuating that I’m doing this for him!”
Crossing his leg so that his ankle rested on his thigh, he closed his pad and shoved it into the space between his hip and the arm of the chair. Pressing his fingers together, he rested both hands against his chin and studied me as if looking at a lab specimen through a microscope.
“I’m not insinuating anything, only asking a question, which you answered. If you’ll have a seat, we can continue.”
Embarrassed by my overreaction to his question, I sat back down and tried to school my face into a passive expression.
“Let’s go back to your interests,” he suggested. “Tell me … have you always been so ambitious? Even as a child?”
“Well, I’m the only child,” I answered, wondering where this was going. The subject change had been rather abrupt. “My mom worked a lot, so she put me in different activities to keep me from noticing.”
“Are those your words or hers?” he asked.
“My opinion based on years of observation. My mother is one of the best at her job, which makes her in high demand for the companies she consults for, so she works a lot. Keeping me busy with che
er, dance, and Girl Scouts kept me from missing her at first.”
“And your father?”
“He’s ex-military … Air Force. So he worked, but not as many hours. He was the one carting me to and from all the various lessons and clubs while Mom was at work. Now he’s retired and works for the state—some job having to do with human resources.”
Dr. Iverson inclined his head. “Your parents sound like very different people.”
I snorted. “Like oil and water. It worked for them at first, I guess. Eventually, the differences tore them apart. They’re separated now.”
“Separated, not divorced?”
I shook my head. “Not yet, but it’s pretty much inevitable. At this point, everyone involved just wishes they would get it over with already.”
“Everyone … does that include you?”
I shrugged. “I guess. If it means they’ll stop fighting all the time and putting me in the middle of their drama, then yes. I wish they’d just sign the damn papers already.”
Nodding, he retrieved his little book again, and began scribbling. “Have you told them how you feel about all this?”
Frowning, I watched as he nearly burned a hole through the page writing so fast. “No. Why would I?”
Directing his gaze at me, he paused in his writing, the tip of his pen pressing against the paper and leaving a rapidly spreading splotch of ink.
“Why would you, indeed?”
Before I could open my mouth to reply, his watch began to beep. Glancing down at it, he pressed a little button on the side, silencing it.
“We’re out of time for today,” he declared, closing his little notebook filled with his thoughts about me. “But you did well. We made excellent progress, I think.”
Standing as well, I rubbed my sore lower back. “Progress? All we did was talk about stuff that has nothing to do with what’s wrong with me.”
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