warmandsad | baby, you can start again

Entry tags:

alana bloom

baby, you can start again

Halfway to Alana's, Abby wondered what the hell she was doing.

Sure, the woman seemed perfectly trustworthy, but above all she was still a therapist, and they hadn't boded particularly well for Abby in the past. Not to mention, she'd want to know, and she'd want to know it all, and there were things that were hard enough to admit to oneself let alone others. No matter how fancy their certifications.

Still, she'd made the appointment and felt pretty much obliged. If it was completely terrible, she couldn't be forced to return. It wasn't court ordered, or anything, just a last ditch effort at stopping feeling so fucking sad, and confused, and guilty.

Knocking on the door, Abby inhaled sharply. She crossed her arms tightly against her chest and waited.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"There isn't," Alana says gently. "What happened to Amy isn't something we can change." Abby knows that bone deep. Alana can practically hear, almost feel, the pain of it radiating off of her. She carries herself well through it, but there are tell tale signs, especially when she's this vulnerable. Alana's just not altogether certain Abby has accepted the truth of it. Wishing doesn't change anything, but it doesn't stop anyone from wishing again.

"And we can't change what you did or didn't do," she continues. "I'm sure it's small comfort, but it's normal, Abby. When something awful happens, it's normal for people to shut down. To not know what to do. We're not always equipped to handle it. You were eight. You shouldn't have needed to be prepared for that."

Abby knew that. Rationally, she knew that. But grief wasn't the most rational emotion and, when accompanied with guilt, all logic seemed to fall out the window. She was only eight, frozen by the cold of the wind on her sea-soaked skin, frozen by the fear of consequences she was too young to fully comprehend. If it were anyone else, she'd never hold it against them. If it were anyone else, she'd understand.

But it wasn't. It was her. And it was Amy. And Alana was right, there was no changing that. "Yeah," she said, because she didn't disagree. "But I'm not sure I can change. Or, you know, should."

The guilt seemed like small penance for getting to live her life when her sister didn't.

Whether or not Abby can change remains to be seen, Alana knows. Recovery is an on-going process, not something she thinks is ever complete; some people, though, get further along the track more quickly than others. Abby's been living with this hurt for so long, there are parts of it Alana suspects are difficult to extricate from the rest of her.

Should is a different question.

"Why is that?"

"I don't know," Abby said, shaking her head, the only answer coming to mind being that she didn't deserve to change. The guilt for letting her sister swim out there, for swimming back without her, ebbs and flows but sometimes it's so much, too much, that she thinks it can't be anything but justice for being the one who got to live (though whether her life was lived was debatable.) "I just don't know whether I should. I mean, I... I told you, we did everything together. So."

Abby stared at her hands again, clenching the tissues in her fists. "Isn't our time up?" She asked, aware that they were making no real progress. Aware that, as always, she just continued to be a burden. Aware that she wasn't going to get any better – and it wasn't anything Alana had done, either. Maybe she just was that way. Maybe she didn't deserve to, or just plain couldn't, heal. She'd tried enough to know.

It's something to come back to, Alana decides, casually scribbling down a note on the matter. There's only so much that can be done in a session, in a year of sessions, and she suspects Abby isn't someone who'll respond well to being pushed too much. A little nudge here and there, maybe, but it might be better to coax her forward instead, a recalcitrant cat, half-feral.

"Not quite yet," she says, glancing at her clock. "We have a couple more minutes. So your parents sent you to see psychiatrists before? Pretty useless ones, I think you've said."

"Yeah, for a while. First, in the hospital. You know, after. They wanted to make sure I didn't have a death wish, or whatever," Abby says, and swallows, because that's what it had been, exactly. Two inexplicably sad little girls that thought sacrificing themselves to the sea was the only answer. One that succeeded, the other that gave into cowardice and lived. "And then just so I had someone to talk to, I guess."

Instead of Christopher. Instead of herself. She hated it, though, hated being made to feel that every week, every month, she was disappointing them with her lack of progress. After a while, smiling and nodding seemed like the easiest way out. But she wants more than this from Alana, she wants to believe that Darrow is different from where she's come.

"It can be hard to find the right person for that," Alana says. Abby was so young, too; it would have been difficult for her to voice trouble connecting with a therapist, probably, or to be taken seriously if she did speak up. This has to be different. "Even the best therapists don't click with everyone." By the sounds of it, these ones may not have been very good anyway. She's loyal to her profession, but that can mean acknowledging that there are people in her field who have no business in it, reckless or unprofessional or unfeeling.

"If there's ever anything you want to handle different or want to address, you can always be open with me. I want to make sure our sessions satisfy what you want from them. This is about you." She speaks evenly, gently, hoping Abby will believe her, if not now, then soon. "What would you say your goals are here?"

"My goals?" Abby asks, chest tightening. She understands the need for them, of course, understands that this can't just be something that goes on forever with no change, but it reminds her so much of the places she's been before. Of the people that she's disappointed by not fulfilling goals. "I... hadn't really thought about it."

That's not a fair response to Alana, though, not when she was one of the kind strangers that found her out on the anniversary of Amy's death by the sea. Whatever possesses her to care, Abby tells herself it's different, and it makes her want to do better this time. "To... be less sad, I guess. To stop going and jumping in the ocean every year like I do."

Alana's not sure that behavior is a bad or unhealthy thing in and of itself. People mark their grief in all kinds of ways. But that same grief is hampering Abby, and if she thinks stopping is what's best for her, it's something they can work towards.

"Alright," she says. "We can work on those things. And whatever else affects you, whatever you want to talk about." She wants to be honest and frank with her clients, and she suspects that, though some caution may be required at times, Abby is someone who will respond to that. For now, she decides to keep her thoughts about the healthiness and the sadness of these things to herself. More time with Abby will give her more insight, a better way of discussing it. "Alright, well, we have to bring this session to an end. Do you have any questions for me, anything you want me to know, before you go?"

Abby shakes her head and starts to push herself out of her seat before she pauses and chews her bottom lip, a little anxious. She feels lighter for having told Alana all that she has, yet someone heavier knowing there's somebody else out there carrying around her secrets. Some of them, at least. There's some she's just not quite ready to share, though she hopes, somehow, that changes. "Just, you know, thank you. I know it's your job and everything, but it means a lot."

Setting her paperwork aside, Alana stands, offering Abby a smile. "Well, I'm glad," she says. "You're welcome." If she's helped even a little, then she's happy for it. There are days, sessions, when she's sure she hasn't helped much at all, when there really isn't anything she can do. She's learned to be thankful for the tiniest of steps forward, even for the steps back. "Keep your chin up. I'll see you next week."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

baby, you can start again

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject