After all, a problem shared is a problem halved.
Right?
It took courage to book this appointment. You couldn't bring yourself to tell your family or friends what happened that night. You should do this properly.
The therapist is older. Well-dressed and professional. He welcomes you in with a wide smile and invites you to sit on the wide leather sofa.
The atmosphere is warm and comforting. Classical furniture. There was a pleasant smell in the air.
The small talk begins. He takes his time and is polite. He can see that you are nervous, and he's gentle with you. It's relaxing to have someone treat you to some normalcy for a change.
He learns more about you and your background.
Finally someone who cares.
It's not long before he asks more about your trauma. About that night. The night you got drunk and took a shortcut. When you were followed, taken and forced in that alley.
He takes his time. Between questions, he studies you closely, carefully examining your reactions. Encouraging you to divulge more.
He probes for more details. Your comfort begins to slip away.
"This is all part of the process."
he assures with that wide smile.
"You can trust me."
Despite your growing discomfort, and hesitation in answering, his questions become more direct.
He soothes you in between your answers, luring you into reliving the most distressing details.
"I know this must be difficult. You're doing so well."
"And have you talked to anyone else about this? No?"
"You're being very brave coming here. Please continue."
"So you chose to take that route despite having advice about the dangers?"
With every question, his pity seems to evaporate a little more.
His tone is changing too. He's more authoritarian. Sharper.
Especially now he's learning what
really
happened that night.
He continues to interrogate you, getting every last detail. There's less soothing. And more silence.
His eyes are drifting over you now. Judging you. Examining you like a piece of meat.
Why do you like this so much?
