Page 84 of Camp Bliss
Jesus, did I call his name?
I cover my flaming face with my hands. This is terrible. This is so bad.
“UUUUUGH.”
A moment passes. “Name the feeling, Greta.”
My huff is sardonic.Name the feeling. Ha.It isn't just one. It’s a tangle of them. Like the wiring of an evil mastermind’s bomb. Each one just as likely to blow up in my face.
“Name the feeling,” Trina says, more gently this time.
“Which one?” I snap, meeting her gaze on the screen.
She smiles like this is progress. It doesn’t feel like progress. It feels messy.
“Well, let me help you. You look embarrassed. Are you embarrassed?”
“UUUUUGH!”I hide behind my hands again.
“Say it. It’ll feel less powerful if you say it.”
“I’m fucking embarrassed!” I punch my thighs with balled fists.
“Good.” She softly praises my outburst. “Naming it—owning it—is good.”
I know she’s encouraging me to go on, but will saying it out loud make it more real? Because if so, I need to find some duct tape and seal my mouth shut. For good.
“What happened that left you feeling embarrassed?” She waits, but not long. “Did Zach say something that made you feel exposed?”
My eyes bug. “W-Why would you ask about Zach?”
Her gaze is level, her expression neutral. Maybe even unnaturally so. “He’s the person you spend most of your time with.”
I set aside for the moment how pathetic this makes me sound. I still haven’t made any effort to reconnect with my friend groups. The teachers I befriended at Broussard Middle and the friends I made in college and grad school. Since that isn’t what this issue is about, I’ll just put a pin in that for later.
Instead I focus on the way Trina says it—defending her guess that this is about Zach—like it’s reasonable. Like, of course, this is about Zach. And the fact that she’s drawn this conclusion on her own sends my heartbeat into overdrive. If Trina can guess that my emotional cluster bomb is about Zach—and we only talk one hour a week—what hashenoticed?
I glance at the clock at the top of my screen. This session is already halfway over. Trina is the only person I can talk to about this (see aforementioned pin), so I’d better get to it or I’ll spend the next week spiraling.
“H-He hasn’t done anything,” I blurt. “It’s me.”
Trina’s face continues to be maddeningly neutral. “Go on.”
I swallow down my panic. “I’ve… been having dreams about him.” I chew my bottom lip and force myself to say it. “The sexual kind.”
She doesn’t even blink.
Okay, that’s kind of reassuring.
She’s not looking at me like I’m crazy or like this is the worst possible thing to come out of my mouth.
Meanwhile, my face is about to burn off.
“And that embarrasses you?” she prompts.
I splutter a laugh. “Uh,yeah?”
This time, a smile flickers in her eyes. “This is a safe space, Greta. Everyone has sex dreams. And they aren’t always literal. Often they are about fractured parts of yourself coming together.”
