"Ithink I'm ready to talk about what happened… or at least part of it," Imogen announced after she took her seat on the couch.
A spark of pride filled me with her words. The moment I'd been waiting to seamlessly happen unfolded before me. It amazed me how organic therapy could be at times. Taking the time to thoroughly build rapport always paid dividends in the end. You could rush things and check off goals on a treatment plan, but if no change was made internally, it was only checkmarks at the end of the day, pointless and ornamental.
Looking at her, I could tell she'd been thinking about this outside our sessions. The fact she'd entered the room and immediately wanted to spill everything was a good sign. It was like once the decision had been made, it bubbled up to the surface and waited, ready to spill over unbidden. It acted like a dam. The wall held the powerful force back, protecting everyone. But as soon as the wall lifted, the water rushed out and over everything. If it wasn't done carefully, it would create wreckage in its wake, but it could be a powerful source of strength for the person if done well. The hardest part was getting people to this point and then making them peel it back slowly. Sometimes, ripping the bandage off wasn't the best philosophy and only made us more raw and vulnerable if the proper shields weren't in place.
Assessing Imogen, I thought about the first time I met her. Her hair had been in her face, and she barely made eye contact. Today, Imogen's hair was shiny and brushed back, her eyes clear. She wore light make up and sat upright, engaged in the conversation. Imogen no longer hid behind her hair or arms. In fact, she conveyed openness and trust.
Imogen's outfit was also different, revealing more of her personal style and fit her frame instead of falling off. She no longer needed to cover herself in layers for comfort or protection externally. She'd learned how to protect herself internally now through our sessions. Her smile was bright, and she seemed lighter. Imogen was eager to share her story, and I could see more of her personality peeking through. Imogen was a completely different girl from the one who came to me a month ago.
"I'm honored you feel ready to share with me. Can I ask what prompted this decision?"
Her face blushed a little, and she blew out a breath before she spoke. "Several things, I think. Like you suggested, I've mostly been working on my thoughts, and I realized I didn't want those things to control me anymore. By not talking about them, it's like I'm giving them the power. But maybe if I share them, then they'll be out of me, and I won't have to fight them alone."
"That's insightful, Imogen. I can tell by your words this has been weighing on you, and it's important for you to share your story, for you to drive the narrative now and not let it control you."
"Yeah, exactly. Jude said something too that clicked, and I realized I was ready, you know. Like, I'm sick and tired of thinking and feeling this way, of having his voice in my head. I want it to stop."
Her emotion was thick in her voice as she shared, and I could hear her strength with each word she spoke.
"Your resiliency is strong, Imogen. You can do this. You can say the words and not let them destroy you. You get to be the voice of your own narrative. No one else."
I waited as she digested my words. It was up to her to share the scars she bore, the pain she felt. Giving her an encouraging smile, I kept my own emotions at bay, so she had room to share whatever she needed to without feeling the need to censor herself.
Often in our lives, we diminished ourselves for fear the other person wouldn't be able to handle the horrors we've experienced, so we shielded them from the true depths of our trauma. Or even worse, our feelings and experiences were dismissed or minimized to make room for the other person to share their feelings, making it almost a competition to who experienced the worst things. Trauma wasn't a race, and each person experienced things differently.
To minimize their experience only taught the person their feelings didn't matter. It was a slippery slope people found themselves on when they attempted to empathize with someone but inadvertently made it about themselves instead. Or worse, it made them not want to share to begin with, because it wasn't safe.
Therapy wasn't that.
In this room, only her feelings mattered. I was a neutral entity, ready to hold her emotions alongside her and help safely navigate them. This was a judgment-free zone, open to sharing the things we held back. If more people understood that about therapy, then perhaps they wouldn't be as adverse to it. The long-held stereotype of lying on a couch while someone asked you, "how does that make you feel?" or, even worse, connecting it to some deep-seated Freudianism, was severely outdated.
"You can start where you feel like. I'm not going to check for accuracy or question what happened. You can tell me whatever you feel ready or comfortable to share. There's no pressure to do it all today either, okay?"
She nodded before taking a breath. Imogen's hands shook slightly now, and I yearned to reach out and hold them. My boundaries were slipping with her. She'd quickly become someone I cared deeply for and wanted to not only help, but comfort.
The scary thing was, I didn't care about the potential risks, or the dangerous waters I found myself wading in when it came to Imogen. That alone should have terrified me, that I was willing to compromise my ethical beliefs for a client. Except when I saw the hurting girl in front of me, they didn't seem as important.
Without thought, I reached over and held her hand in a comforting grip. I was relieved when she didn't tense or shrug me off. Instead, she squeezed it back and held on to me tightly as she began to talk.
"There are some things that won't make sense. My family doesn't make sense to people outside of it. But I've been raised to be strong, to be a leader, and to know what was important. Family. There are things I never questioned because it’s the way it was. It didn't seem odd to me, and I accepted it as what was best. I'd always believed my father and was taught he had my best intentions in mind."
Imogen dropped her head as she spoke, speaking her story to my hand. She traced patterns on the top of it as she spoke, almost as if in a trance.
"When he told me he needed me for a deal, I didn't question it. I'm almost 18, and while Attie will be the one in charge, I was meant to be his… backup for the… family business."
She paused, hesitant over her words, almost as if she had to be careful to choose the ones she did. It struck me as odd, but it wasn't important right now. Her saying the words was all that mattered in this instant.
"When I got to the warehouse, I started to get nervous. I'd never been to something like that, and fear started to consume me. I refused to get out of the car at first, but then my mother was there standing in the doorway. When I saw her, I got out and took off running to her. She hugged me tight when I made it. I was so happy for those few seconds her arms were around me. It'd been a week since I'd seen her. She'd gone on some trip with my dad, but when he'd returned, she hadn't."
I watched her face as she spoke and I saw her scrunch up her nose at the realization. Sometimes, the streams of consciousness bring to light things a person hadn't known they remembered or thought about before. I had a feeling this was happening now with Imogen. I would leave that for her to work out later.
"Things went sideways once I was out of the car. When I pulled back from her hug, I realized my mom was crying and telling me she was sorry over and over. I stood there for a minute, not understanding. If I'd just pieced it together… maybe I could've run, or hit the person, or something. But I did nothing." Imogen turned to me, pleading with me to understand.
"Imogen, you are not responsible for whatever happened next. Neither is your mom, from what I can tell. The people or person who did this, they're responsible. You could've made different choices, yes. But it wouldn't have mattered in the end, and it might've even been worse. You are not to blame here, hun."
Imogen nodded, her lip quivering some as she sucked in her breath to continue.
"It's all kind of a blur after that. These men came up behind me and pushed us into the warehouse, tying my hands behind my back. Someone kicked me, and I fell to my knees. I remember the feeling of the concrete as I hit it. It ricocheted all the way up my body, and I could feel it in my teeth. The place smelled of stale urine and Cheetos. I remember thinking that was a weird thing to smell, but it's seared into my head."