Conflicting Hearts

He heaves a heavy sigh and accelerates the car. I can tell he’s upset with me.

  “If that’s how you want it,” he replies, annoyed. “Have it your way then.”

  “That’s how I want it.” My voice is emphatic but trembling.

  The entire one and a half hour trip back to Portland transpires in complete silence. I think of the horrible thing I’ve done to him, and I wish to God I would have never been born. I’m such a whore, and I dragged him down to my level. He was right. I turned him into my abuser, and there is no forgiveness for what I’ve done. Now God is going to make me pay for sure.

  As soon as he pulls into my apartment complex and stops the car, I jump out and run up the stairs toward my door without saying goodbye. When I reach the third floor and insert my key into the lock, I glance below. His car drives off into the night, and the man I love is lost to me forever. I’m a wreck and want to die.

  CHAPTER 17

  Intense Personal Injury

  Monday morning arrives, and I drag myself into my bathroom. My eyes are nearly swollen shut from constant crying since Ian dropped me off early Sunday morning. I can’t show up at work today—I just can’t. I pick up the telephone and dial the number for my boss. It goes to voice mail.

  “Mr. Stewart, this is Rachel. I won’t be in today,” I declare as my voice cracks. “I’m ill.”

  I hang up and walk over to the couch and sit down. Whiskers jumps into my lap and purrs. He always senses when I’m upset. I pet him and silently cry. My mind can’t stop thinking of Ian and how I’ve ruined our relationship.

  My cell phone pings for the hundredth time, announcing the arrival of another text message. I’m afraid to look, but I can’t help myself. It’s Ian again.

  “Rachel, I need to know you’re okay. Please, text or call.”

  I finally answer his multiple pesky messages. “I can’t talk. I need time out. Find someone else. I’m not worth the trouble.”

  He doesn’t give up. Another ping announces the arrival of a return text. “I’m not letting you break up with me.”

  I text him back. “Too bad, I already have.”

  The phone rings. It’s Ian. I answer it, angry as hell. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” I bark into the receiver.

  “I won’t let you break up with me. We’re going to fix this.”

  “You can’t fix it. I’m broken, don’t you get it? Nobody can fix me. Not you, not God, not anyone. Just go away.” I hang up.

  A moment later another text arrives. “I won’t give up on you…ever.” I want to find a hammer and smash my goddamn telephone. Instead, I turn it off and then throw it in the kitchen drawer.

  The rest of the day, I can’t function. For hours, I lie in my bed in a fetal position. I’m tired of living. Thoughts of killing myself run through my mind—from overdosing to slitting my wrists—but I’ve always been afraid to act out. At least when I think about it, I feel better. I hate emotional pain, and I want it to stop. If I die it will stop, but then my theological thinking kicks in and the risk of hell compels me to suffer through it instead.

  I relive in my mind how Ian sexually gave me what I craved. The thought turns me on thinking about being bound, and I start to ache for a repeat performance. I can’t do this to myself. I can’t reach down and recreate it in my mind, for I know I’ll be feeding my vile desires.

  Slowly, I crawl out of bed and wander over to my desk and scour the center drawer. Somewhere, there is the card to my former counselor, and I have to find it. I’m going to end up in an insane asylum if I don’t get help.

  After a few minutes, her card resurrects to the top of my messy drawer. I dial the number, and her answering service kicks in.

  “This is Dr. Grayson. Your call is important to me, please leave a message, and I will contact you as soon as possible. If you are in a crisis and need immediate help, call the Suicide Prevention line at…” Blah, blah, blah. I wish she’d stop talking so I can leave a message. At last the beep comes.

  “Dr. Grayson, this is Rachel Hayward. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but you helped me through my divorce five years ago. I need help again. Please call.” I leave my number and hang up like a sniveling little girl. An hour later she telephones back.

  “Rachel, it’s Dr. Grayson. What can I do for you?”

  “I need somebody to talk to,” I cry. “I just broke up with my boyfriend, and I’m a mess. When can I see you?”

  “Well, I actually have a cancellation today, and I’m free at three o’clock. Would that be convenient?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Looking forward to talking with you, Rachel. Hang in there.”

  Our call ends, and a sense of relief flows through my veins. At least I have someone to spill my guts to, even if it will cost me $120 an hour. I have to fix this somehow.

  * * * *

  The location hasn’t changed, and I feel relieved when I enter the door. She has the usual “in session” tag on the outside of her office, so I know the routine remains the same. I pick up a magazine and flip through the pages waiting my turn. Nothing registers and I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Finally, the door opens, another woman departs.

  “See you next week,” Dr. Grayson says to her departing patient. She looks over at me and smiles. “Rachel, come on in.”

  The familiarity of her office returns. Nothing seems to have altered—from her chair to the two-seater couch near the wall. The familiar brown pillows are on either side, and I notice her plants that need watering. It’s not the most inviting atmosphere, and I wonder if I should bring up the suggestion it’s time to redecorate. She sits down in her chair, and picks up a pen and pad.

  “So, what brings you here today, Rachel?”

  I’m amazed at how psychologists can jump from one troubled mind to another with ease. That’s all it takes. The floodgates open, and I’m bawling like a little girl. She hands over the box of tissues.

  “Take your time. When you feel like you can tell me, go ahead.”

  After blowing my nose, I glance up at the clock on the wall keenly aware I’ve wasted ten minutes of my $120 fifty-minute session.

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  “You said in your phone call that you broke up with your boyfriend. Is this your first relationship since your divorce?”

  “Yes, first serious one. I’ve hardly dated anyone in five years.”

  “How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Not very long.” I don’t give specifics, because I’m embarrassed to tell her I jumped in the sack with him on the third date.

  “How did you meet?”

  The absurdity of it breaks out a relieved smile upon my face. “I rear-ended him on the Sunset Highway on the way to work.”

  Dr. Grayson raises her eyebrows. “Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard of a couple meeting that way.” She looks at me. “That memory seems to make you smile, at least.”

  “Yes, from the moment I met him, he’s been the kindest person I’ve ever known. He’s Mr. Perfect, and I’m Miss Screwed up. We’ve been colliding hearts ever since.”

  “Do you mean your personalities?”

  The sadness returns. I look at Dr. Grayson, but then pull my eyes away from her before I utter the words.

  “My abuse issues.” I gulp. “My sexual abuse issues, to be honest.”

  Dr. Grayson flips through my file. “Yes, I remember we touched upon your past briefly in our sessions before, but you indicated at that time you didn’t want to delve into that area.”

  “I guess it’s time to delve,” I sheepishly reply.

  “And what’s changed your mind?”

  “Because my relationship with Ian Richards is the closest to normalcy I’ve ever been. I feel as if I’ve dragged him down to my sexual perversion.” I start to cry again. “I want to change. I don’t want him to change for me. It’s wrong.”

  “What type of perceived sexual perversion are you talking about, Rachel?”

&nb
sp; “The fact that I need to be hurt to feel wanted and have an orgasm.”

  “All right,” she says, making a comment on her pad. “We can talk about that behavior.”

  I look at her, wondering if this is really going to help or not.

  “Where are you currently in your relationship with Mr. Richards?”

  “We’re not. I told him that I didn’t want to see him again.”

  “And what prompted that?”

  My lower lip quivers. With each damn minute that ticks by it becomes harder to express my thoughts.

  “We had sex the other night, and I asked him to hurt me.”

  “And did he hurt you?”

  “Not really bad. I don’t want you to think he beat me or anything.”

  “All right, thank you for clarification. What did he do?”

  “I asked him to be rough. It’s the only way I can come.”

  “And he was rough, I take it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he like it?”

  “Obviously, no.” I glare at her like she needs to get the point. “He was angry afterward. I think he was angry at me for making him do it.”

  “Hmm,” she says, as if she’s digesting my statement. “Did you make him or did he have a choice?”

  I think for a moment. “No, I guess I didn’t make him, per se.”

  “Then he had a choice.”

  “I guess so, but he did it for me.”

  “And what happened afterward?”

  “He yelled at me and asked me never to ask him to do it again, then started crying.”

  “I see. Why do you think he acted that way?”

  “Because I forced him to be someone he’s not. He said he felt like my pedophile abuser.”

  “You’re saying you forced him, again. There’s that lack of choice.”

  “Okay, I guess I didn’t.”

  “All right.”

  “You have to understand that there’s not a mean bone in the man’s body. I selfishly didn’t care if he could handle it or not.” When the words comes out of my mouth, I suddenly get what Ian must have felt.

  “Do you think that maybe he was angry at himself for going down that road, rather than at you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you talked to him since?”

  “Only to tell him to leave me alone.”

  She jots a few notes down on her pad, and then leans back further in her chair looking relaxed and in control. It’s irritating.

  “So, what do you want, Rachel? Why are you here today?”

  It takes me a moment to think about her question. I know what I want, and it’s Ian. I don’t want to hurt him with my issues.

  “Understanding,” I say with a quivering voice. “Understanding as to why I want to hurt myself or be hurt, and the courage to turn away from it.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I want to believe I’m worth loving, and also that I can give love in return.”

  “That’s an admirable goal. Have you told Mr. Richards you are here?”

  “No, I can’t talk to him.”

  “Do you think that’s fair to him, shutting him out of your life with no explanation because it’s uncomfortable for you to talk to him?”

  “Boy, you’re filled with questions, today.” I frown at her. She smirks. I know I’m hurting him by pushing him away. Now I feel even guiltier since she shined the spotlight on my insensitive behavior.

  “No, it’s not fair.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way. Will you call him and let you know how you feel?”

  “Yes,” I relent.

  “Will you give him the chance to do the same?”

  “Yes, but I need a break from our relationship. If I’m going to go back into therapy with you, I can’t deal with being with him. I won’t be able to focus.”

  “Then tell him how you feel. If he truly has your best interest at heart, then he should allow you the time that you need.” She pauses for a moment and continues in a serious tone. “And no texting or emails to get it out, either. I want you to pick up the phone and hear his voice or see him face-to-face to discuss it. “

  Busted again, I groan inside. Texting and emails are so much easier. Doesn’t she realize that kind of communication was made for me?

  I sit there and process all that we’ve talked about, and a sense of relief flows into my heart. I know this isn’t going to be easy, but I love Ian too much not to find out why I want to keep my broken child locked in that room.

  We spend the rest of my few minutes talking about how we’ll approach our sessions, and I set up a payment plan. After making an appointment for the next session, I drive home feeling like a zombie.

  * * * *

  It’s been almost an hour since I arrived home. I’ve procrastinated carrying out my promise to communicate. Finally, I sit down and write my thoughts down on a piece of paper to read during our conversation. I might as well run over that deer staring into the headlights ahead of time.

  When I’m done, I check the time. It’s five-thirty, so I call his cell. He’s probably still at his office, but maybe he can talk in private. His phone doesn’t ring but once, and I hear his desperate voice at the other end.

  “Rachel…sweetheart.” His tone is edgy, and I can sense his sorrow at the other end of the line.

  “Hello, Ian.” I look down at my written dialogue and start reading it aloud. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve gone back to counseling.”

  “Can I see you?” he interrupts.

  “No, Ian, not now. I need time to figure things out.”

  “Rachel, I love you. I’m so sorry for last night. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Ian, don’t apologize. You made the decision and gave me what I told you that I wanted.” My lower lip quivers. “It broke my heart afterward, because I know that’s not you. It can never be you. I’m ashamed over what happened.”

  “God, Rachel. Afterward, I felt like your abuser. I don’t want to feel that way ever again. I want to love you, not abuse you.”

  “I know…I know…” I tell him, with silent tears rolling down my cheeks.

  “I need to see you,” he begs.

  “I think we should stop seeing each other, so that my mind isn’t muddled in the months ahead while I am in counseling. I need a three-month break.”

  “Three months?” He sounds mortified.

  “Yes, three months. I’ve got to figure this stuff out in my life, Ian.” He’s silent at the end of the line. “It’s not fair to you.”

  “All right,” he relents. “If that’s what you need, I understand.”

  I imagine the pain and disappointment flitting across his face, and my heart breaks over pushing him away.

  “I want our relationship to work,” his voice pleads. “Do what you need to do, and I’ll be here waiting.”

  “Maybe you need to take this time, too, in order to figure out why you love me. I’m screwed up, Ian. You can’t rescue me.” I really don’t think he is, but I still feel so unworthy of his love. “You can do so much better. You’re a wonderful man, and you shouldn’t love a wounded girl like me.”

  “I never thought that I was rescuing you.” His voice is defensive. “Besides, you’re a wonderful woman, but you just don’t see your value. I don’t want anyone else.”

  “Okay, I get it, Ian, but in my heart I don’t understand it.” I hesitate for a moment feeling it shatter in my chest. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “Rach, keep in touch. Don’t drop off the face of the earth,” he begs.

  “Bye Ian.” I start to cry and end the call. “I love you too,” I say, looking at the phone. I wish I would have told him.

  After a few minutes of struggling whether to call him back, I lay down my cell phone. Most of what I had written on my cue paper never got out of my mouth, but a least the important parts did. Frankly, I don’t know how I’ll handle thre
e months without him.

  Suddenly, I feel stupid, like I shot myself in the foot or something. Second thoughts flood my mind as to the wisdom in this counseling thing, but my heart tells me that I have to do this.

  I go to my computer and click on his page so I can look at his pictures and blubber. As soon as I do, I see a new comment on my wall.

  “I’ll be watching for you in my rearview mirror. Love you always, sweets, Ian.”

  That’s it. I’m back on another crying jag.

  Chapter 18

  Confronting Demons

  It’s been two months since I started therapy, and I feel like chopped liver. Each time I walk into Dr. Grayson’s office, I see chain saws and shovels. It’s a damn torture chamber. As soon as I sit down, I wonder what pain she’ll put me through during the session. It irritates me even further that I have to pay for this torment!

  The process usually starts with the chain saw. Dr. Grayson pulls that damn cord, and then I hear the roar of the engine and the smell of gasoline and smoke. She starts with slicing into my mind and bombarding me with stupid-ass questions.

  “Tell me about that.”

  “How did that make you feel?

  “Why do you think you reacted that way?”

  “Have you forgiven your abuser?”

  Blah, blah, blah. She stands and knocks on the door where I have my inner child locked up and demands a conversation with my five-year-old self. She’s trespassing where I’ve never let another soul, and frankly it just plain hurts.

  When the interrogation ends, she turns to my heart and attempts to shovel out the shit I’ve buried there. At times, I want to leap to my feet and say, “fuck this crap” and slam the door on my way out. To my chagrin, something keeps me tied as if I’m bound in invisible duct tape. I blame Ian. As soon as that thought is articulated, Dr. Grayson reminds me I should be doing this for my sake, not his. I hate the woman.

  To top it off, it’s been too long since I’ve spoken to Ian, and I’m dying inside. The out of sight, out of mind torment is keeping me up at night. I have visions of him slipping away.

  Every day I check cars in front of me on the Sunset Highway looking for his spiffy car. I want to talk to him, but I’m afraid and vulnerable. He hasn’t posted anything on my page, or his, for that matter, since the day we parted.