Page 168 of Disarm
The question hits somewhere deep and raw. “A lot,” I say quietly. “He held my hand under the table the whole time. He backed me up. He… translated when my brain got stuck.”
She nods. “So going home for a week where you’ll all be under the same roof feels like… what?”
“Like we’re taking that dinner and stretching it out over seven days,” I say. “With no guarantee there’s a private boys-in-the-hotel-room debrief at the end.”
“Ah,” she says softly. “No separate safe space.”
“Except my old room,” I mutter. “Which is also… loaded, in its own way.”
“What’s the story your anxiety is telling you about this trip?” she asks.
“That I’m walking him into a situation where he could decide he’s out,” I say. “That if he spends enough time looking at us together in his house, he’ll call it and I’ll be… left choosing between my dad and my… person.”
“And what does the part of you that isn’t panic say?” she prompts gently.
“That he already knows the worst parts,” I admit. “That I already told him the truth. That if he was going to go nuclear immediately, he might’ve done it already.”
She nods. “So this trip is less about revealing something new and more about… seeing how he behaves with what he already knows.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Which is almost scarier.”
“Because it’s out of your control,” she says.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
She tilts her head. “What pieces are in your control?”
“Uh. I can control… how much I’m willing to answer in the moment. Like we planned. What I share. What I redirect. I cancontrol… whether I stay in conversations that feel like they’re cutting into bone.”
She nods. “What about support?”
“Miguel will be there,” I say. “Obviously. And my stepmom. She’s… already on our side. Loudly. And I can text you. Or Luis, apparently, if Miguel lets me steal his therapist for a second.”
Her mouth quirks. “I suspect Luis would not mind being stolen, briefly.”
“I hate knowing my boyfriend’s therapist’s first name,” I grumble. “It makes me feel like I’m in a crossover episode.”
“How does it feel,” she asks, “knowing Miguel is getting his own support around this?”
I stare at my hands. “Good,” I say, then wince. “And guilty. But less guilty than before.”
“What shifted?” she asks.
“He told me,” I say slowly, “that he’s doing it so he can be in this for the long haul. That he doesn’t want to burn out. And you… kind of said the same thing. That it’s about staying, not about me being so awful he needs professional help to tolerate me.”
“And you’re starting to believe that,” she says. Not a question.
“A little,” I admit. “On good days.”
“Good,” she says. “I’m going to suggest we treat this spring break as… exposure with safety rails. We can’t remove all the anxiety. But we can build you a harness.”
I snort. “Great. Emotional rock climbing.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Let’s talk about concrete supports. What do you need to feel like you can breathe in that house?”
We spend the rest of the session building a list, like no heavy talks after 10 p.m. My brain cannot handle existential dread when it’s already fried. Giving myself permission to leave the room if I start to spiral, no explanation required in the moment.Code phrases I can say to clue in Miguel on how I’m feeling. If I say, “I’m grabbing water,” it means “Please get me out of here.” One serious topic per day, max. We don’t let every single meal turn into therapy-lite with Dad as an unlicensed practitioner. And daily check-ins, a fifteen-minute recap with Miguel before bed, where we actually say how we’re doing instead of just collapsing.
She writes all of it down, then slides the paper toward me at the end.
