Page 72 of Knot Broken

“Let’s,” Grey said, resting his elbows on the counter.

Chapter 34

Nadia

“Hi.” Kayla, the therapist, looked up as I walked in the door, her eyes dropping to the device clipped to my belt. “So you’ve decided to try transitioning? Congratulations.”

“Seems like a weird thing to say to someone who’s waiting for every muscle and sinew to rearrange itself as their bones change shape.” My hand clapped over my mouth and I blinked. “Sorry,” I said, removing it seconds later. “That sounded really bitchy.”

“Bitchy is OK,” she said with a shrug. “You’re allowed to feel how you feel. Angry, sad, and anything else in between.” Her elbows hit the desk as she leaned forward. “You’re going through something tough and this is a safe space for that.”

“Mandatory safe space.” With a shake of my head, I swallowed down another apology, then smiled wryly. “The fact I have to be here kinda negates the safe part.”

“Ahh…” She leaned back in her chair. “Is that the sticking point? We can sit here, not say a word for our sessions, not if you don’t want to. The legal team wants to rule out any risk of self-harm.” Her smile faded. “That’s not something you’ve ever thought about?”

“Nope.”

I bit that word off, then felt my jaw snap shut.

“Well, that’s good.” She paused, watching me with a slight smile, then when I didn’t have anything else to say, turned back to her computer. “Obviously if you’re having thoughts of self-harm, please reach out to any of the staff here. It doesn’t have to be me. Everyone here is trained to help during a crisis.”

And at that, Kayla’s focus shifted to her work. The sound of her mouse moving, then clicking, was the only thing to disturb the increasingly oppressive silence. The woman was giving me what I wanted, I told myself. Didn’t stop my hands from gripping the arms of the new chair tightly. Say something, some hard wired instinct screamed inside me. Anything!

“So you don’t want to ask me about my relationship with my parents or anything?” My smile was so fake my lips twitched as they curved. “Discuss some deeply repressed trauma?”

“Is that something you want to talk about?”

Why did I feel a rush of relief the minute Kayla turned back to me? I knew exactly why. This was stupid. I was almost sulking at the idea of being forced in here and now I was bringing this up again? I could almost hear my mother’s voice inside my head, telling me to stop making such a fuss.

“Not really.” I shook my head. “I mean, there wasn’t anything especially traumatic about growing up in my family. No one hit me, yelled at me, abused me.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

I knew what she was doing. Psychologists seemed to cultivate a bland facade for you to project your crap onto. My first session with my current therapist was super awkward because I assumed she’d draw me out, tell me what to do and how. Instead, she asked me a few questions about my background and I’d answered them dutifully, telling her what I thought she wanted to hear. It took a ridiculous amount of sessions to get to the point where I started talking about how I actually felt.

Which had me taking a shuddering breath now.

“But I struggle with silence.” Kayla’s expression softened. “Sitting here for an hour without saying a word?” That same feeling that rose the moment the device was placed made a return appearance. Of my skin feeling too tight, my muscles quivering, ready, but for what? “Tell me about your day, what you’re thinking of having for lunch, anything other just quiet.”

“And why is that?”

She said that in a far gentler tone and for just a second, my eyes closed. I didn’t want to go through this all over again. The old me would’ve suffered in silence, but the only way I could make change was to consistently, in small ways, keep doing the opposite thing my instincts told me to do.

“Do I have to talk about this again?” I said in a rough voice. “If you could just talk…”

With a sigh, I sat straighter in my chair and opened my eyes. Something in them had Kayla’s gaze sharpening, but I nodded and forged on.

“No one hurt me or anyone else in our home. No one raised their voices or swore at us or hit us or sexually abused us.” This was the litany I told myself over and over as a young adult, rationalising why I had no grounds to complain. “My dad was…” I could see him then, clearly in my mind. That hard stare, the muscles around his mouth tightening as he looked down at the dinner table. My hand would stray sideways, correcting the angle of the fork closest to us slightly. “A very particular man. He liked things a certain way.”

Bloody hell, I could almost hear Mum’s voice inside my head as I used her words to describe Dad.

“And what happened if things at home didn’t meet his standard?” Kayla asked.

“Nothing.” My smile was reflexive. “He said very little about it, and that’s how you knew.” My butt shifted in the seat, but suddenly nowhere was comfortable. Thighs quivering, I wanted to get up, to pace. Instead, I stayed right where I was, feeling something inside me move back and forth. “No smiles, no greetings, no how was your day, just… silence.” Flapping a hand negligently, I continued. “It’s why I don’t cope very well with lulls in conversations now. The quiet feels… oppressive somehow, y’know?” She nodded and yet I didn’t feel like she really understood it. “Like there’s a weight to it and it presses down on you, harder and harder by the second. You can’t breathe, can’t…”

My hands shot out and I watched them begin to change in real time. White hair appeared all over the backs of them, then my nails lengthened, transforming into claws. It was only the shake of my arms that let me know how I was feeling about that.

“You’re OK.” Kayla’s voice was soothing and intent at the same time. “Everything’s OK. If you think you’re going to shift, I’ll press on the button on the wall and someone from the team will be here in seconds.”