Finding Audrey

So then. All the bad stuff happened. And I kind of slid off a cliff. And here I am. Stuck in my own stupid brain.

Dad says it’s totally understandable and I’ve been through a trauma and now I’m like a small baby who panics as soon as it’s handed to someone it doesn’t know. I’ve seen those babies, and they go from happy and gurgling to howling in a heartbeat. Well, I don’t howl. Not quite.

But I feel like howling.

Here’s the thing: does it matter exactly what happened and why those girls were excluded? It’s irrelevant. It happened. Done. Over. I’d rather not go into it.

We don’t have to reveal everything to each other. That’s another thing I’ve learned in therapy: it’s OK to be private. It’s OK to say no. It’s OK to say, “I’m not going to share that.” So, if you don’t mind, let’s just leave it there.

“Sweetheart, I know you think it’ll be a cathartic experience and you’ll say your piece and everyone will come away the wiser,” says Dad. “But in real life, that doesn’t happen. I’ve confronted enough assholes in my time. They never realize they’re assholes. Not once. Whatever you say.”

Dr. Sarah isn’t wild about hearing about Izzy or Tasha or any of them. She’s all, like, “Audrey, you aren’t validated by other people,” and, “You’re not responsible for other people’s emotions” and “This Tasha sounds very tedious, let’s move off the topic.”

She even gave me a book about unhealthy relationships. (I almost laughed out loud. Could you get any more unhealthy than the relationship between me and Tasha?) It was about how you have to be strong to break free from abuse and not constantly measure yourself against toxic people but stand strong and distinct like a healthy tree. Not some stunted, falling-over, codependent victim tree. Or whatever.

“Look, Linus…” I try to explain. “I have to do this.”

“Don’t give me that bollocks!” he yells. “I thought your therapist banned those words? I thought the only thing you ‘have to’ do in life is obey the laws of physics? Didn’t you learn anything? What about living in the present, not the past? What about that?”

I stare at him, silenced. He was listening more than I realized.

“You don’t ‘have to’ do this,” he continues, “you’re choosing to do it. What if you have a relapse? What then?”

“Then…” I wipe my damp face. “I won’t. I’ll be fine. I’m better, in case you hadn’t realized.”

Here’s what I’m not supposed to do after a stressful event: Ruminate about it. Brood. Replay it over and over. Take responsibility for anyone else’s emotions.

Here’s what I’ve been doing ever since my fight with Linus: Ruminating about it. Brooding. Replaying it over and over. Taking responsibility for his fury (yet resenting it). Lurching between despair and indignation. Wanting to call him. Wanting to never call him again.