Izzy & Noah ✔️

Fifty-Four: After the Chaos - Psychotherapy Session

After a day like this at work, all I want is to go home and collapse. But I made a commitment—to myself and to psychotherapy. And I promised Noah I'd keep fighting to figure out these panic attacks.

Standing outside the door, I hesitate. Every time I come here, a part of me wonders if this is even helping. Another part of me insists it has to.

Why don't I just stop?
I don't have an answer.

The door opens, and Tina greets me with her usual warmth, though her eyes flicker with concern as they catch my expression. I must look as worn as I feel.

I step inside and sink into the familiar chair, the one I've occupied so many times before. Tina takes her seat across from me, her notebook in hand. She flips through her notes, searching for my file.

"Where did we leave off last time?" she asks, her voice gentle but focused.

And there it is—a file. A tangible record of my chaos, detailing the meds, the mess, the oddities that make me me. It's strange knowing that all my scattered pieces are condensed into neat little pages in her hands.

I laugh softly, almost bitterly, at myself and my spiraling thoughts.

"What made you smile?" Tina asks, her voice steady and curious.

"I was just thinking about how completely wrecked I am," I reply honestly, the corners of my mouth twitching into a faint, humorless grin.

Tina doesn't join in my self-deprecating humor; she just looks at me, calm and grounded, letting the silence settle.

"How are you otherwise?" she asks, her tone casual but with the weight of genuine interest.

It's such a simple question, yet one I've been asking myself more often lately, as if the answer might finally change. I glance down at the floor, feeling the words press against me like a heavy weight.

"Destroyed," I admit, my voice quiet. "That's how I've felt all week—like I've fallen apart into pieces I can't put back together."

I notice the Christmas stockings on my feet, their cheery patterns a strange contrast to my mood. Focusing on them gives me something to hold onto, a brief escape. I count the little details, trace the lines in my mind. Anything to delay.

"I don't think this helps," I blurt out. "Therapy, I mean. Sitting here feels like too much."

Tina doesn't flinch. Instead, she calmly shifts gears. "If you're okay with it, we can pick up where we left off last time—your relationship with your mother."

I interrupt before she can say more. "Which doesn't exist."

Her brow furrows slightly. "What do you mean?"

"We haven't spoken in weeks," I say, leaning my head on my hand. "I've lost count."

Her gaze holds steady, silently inviting me to continue.

"Why don't you talk?" she asks softly, her curiosity unforced.

I sigh deeply. This subject feels like a mountain—too steep, too jagged, too much for today. But the words start to spill out anyway, raw and unfiltered, reopening wounds I thought had scarred over. They're not gone, though. They're here, burning fresh.

"It was December," I begin, my voice trembling. "I flew home after my father died. I hadn't been able to go before—I'd just started a new job, and you know how it is. Nothing ever works out when you want it to."

I pause, my hands trembling now as I speak. Tina waits, giving me the space I need.

"Noah and I had this terrible fight," I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. "But he caught me at the airport, and we ended up flying home together. When we arrived, my mother seemed fine at first. Kind, even. But then it started—the accusations. She thought I'd come back for the inheritance. That was never the reason. I just wanted to say goodbye to my father."