Page 193 of Disarm
I hesitate for half a second. “I… did some breathing,” I say. “The box-breathing thing. It helped. A little.” I clear my throat. “And then Miguel… helped ground me. In his own way.”
Her eyes are gentle, not prying. “Grounding through touch can be very effective,” she says. “Especially with someone you trust. The important part is that it felt consensual and helpful, not like something you were forcing yourself through.”
“It was…” I search for the right word. “It was like… my brain was a radio stuck on the ‘you’re a problem’ station, and he just… changed the channel long enough for me to breathe again. After, I didn’t feel… dirty. Or used. I felt… held. Cared for.”
She nods. “That distinction matters,” she says. “And I’m glad you’re paying attention to how it felt after, not just during.”
I let my shoulders drop a little. “We left the dinner,” I add. “Went back to the condo. My dad was… not thrilled. But we didn’t stay to make him more comfortable at the cost of me falling apart.”
“And how do you feel about that choice now?” she asks.
I think about it. About the hallway, and the look on Dad’s face, and the Uber ride home with Miguel’s shoulder solid against mine. “Proud,” I say, surprising myself with how true it feels. “And scared. But more proud.”
“That’s growth,” she says simply.
We talk through the rest of it—the boardwalk day, the breakfast where Miguel told his mom he wants to marry me someday.I leave out that exact detail, that one feels like mine to hoard for a minute.The way my body’s still bracing for some shoe to drop, even as things are… cautiously okay.
She asks about school and I tell her midterms were survivable, that I used grounding techniques before exams and actually went to office hours when I didn’t understand something instead of trying to brute-force it at three a.m. She looks genuinely delighted, like I turned in extra credit.
Then we talk about the part that’s harder to admit.
“There’s this… undertow,” I say, tracing a knot in the wooden arm of my chair with my thumb. “Like… on the surface, thingsare okay. Good, even. But underneath, there’s this… pull. Like my brain is singing the same old song quietly, ‘you don’t deserve this, it won’t last, you’re one mistake away from losing everything.’”
She nods slowly. “And when that song gets louder, what tends to happen?”
“I grind harder,” I say immediately. “Practice, school, people-pleasing. Try to outrun it. Or I go the other way—shut down, check out, and disappear into Miguel’s hoodie for three days. I’m trying not to do either, but the urge is there.”
She studies me for a moment. “We’ve talked about safety plans before,” she says gently. “About recognizing when you’re sliding from ‘stressed’ into ‘crisis.’ It might be time to revisit that. Not because I think you’re on the brink right now, but because you’re describing that undertow. And I’d rather we have a life jacket ready before you’re in the deep end.”
I swallow and this is the part I’ve been worried about, the part my brain alternately wants to poke and to avoid eye contact with forever.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Yeah. We can… do that.”
We spend the next chunk of the session going through it. Signs I’m slipping: not eating, not sleeping, pulling away from Miguel and teammates, and intrusive thoughts getting louder. Things that help are texting one of them with a code word, going to the gym with someone instead of alone, and scheduling an extra session with her instead of pretending I’m fine.
We write it down. Literally. She hands me a printed worksheet and a pen, and we fill it in together. It feels juvenile and terrifying and weirdly relieving.
“You’re not jinxing anything by planning for hard days,” she says, like she can see the thought on my face. “You’re just acknowledging that your brain has patterns. Preparing for them is a kindness to yourself, not a prediction of doom.”
“Okay,” I say again, my voice a little wobbly.
By the end of the session, my shoulders feel lighter and heavier at the same time. I tuck the safety plan into my notebook like a secret map.
“What’s one thing you’re looking forward to this week?” She asks right as I’m standing up.
It takes me half a second to answer. “Miguel’s off early tomorrow,” I say. “He promised to make dinner for both of us.”
She smiles. “Sounds like progress on multiple fronts.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling back. “Yeah, it does.”
When I get backto the condo, the sky’s that soft blue-gold that makes everything look like a postcard. Miguel’s truck is already in his spot and I notice that he’s pulled his motorcycle out of his small garage. Spring means it’s not too cold for him to start riding for fun again. There’s music drifting through the door when I unlock it, something low and guitar-heavy coming from his little Bluetooth speaker on the counter.
The whole place smells like garlic and tomatoes. I step inside and lock the door behind me. “Honey, I’m home,” I call, dropping my backpack by the couch.
Miguel pops his head out from the kitchen, curls a little frizzy from steam, apron on over his T-shirt like a domestic god. “You are just in time to witness my culinary genius,” he says. “Behold…chicken that is not dry and onions that are only slightly charred. For my version of burrito bowls.”
I grin. “Growth.”
