Stephen King Homework

 "It's such an awful sensation. This feeling of being watched. I know she can't get to me, I know I'm beyond her reach, but I still feel her presence. Like if I let my guard down for one second, she'll be right there."

Dr. Linda nods, "That's not an usual feeling for victims of abuse."

I still can't believe I'm sitting here. If you had told me five years ago that I would be in a therapist's office, spilling my guts, I would have called you crazy. But, here I am. The room is small and neat, dark and warm, sort of feels like a nest or cocoon that protects you from the outside world. Maybe that's how I'm able to open up in here. Maybe that's how I'm able to feel safe. 

I started therapy during my divorce. My anger had become so all consuming, I was losing my grip on everything. I knew I needed anger management if I wanted to lead a normal life. The processes started and all I wanted were tips. 

How do I control my rage? 

Give me breathing exercises or calming techniques.

No, I don't need to talk about my father.

I need you to help me stop seeing red and throwing out every hurtful word I can at my wife and colleagues and people who used to consider me friend.

But as therapy continued, and I gave in to the process, it was revealed to me the origin of my rage: abuse. 

It may sound idiotic, but I had no idea I was being abused.

No man ever likes to admit it. We've seen society come so far accepting and understanding women and their stories. From #METOO to talk shows to podcasts to every medium you can name, a woman is able to share her experience with sexual, mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical abuse, But not men. Not me. 

"Robbie, are you still with me?"

My therapist's voice pulls me back into the present. 

"Oh, sorry yeah, I'm just...distracted. I feel weird today. Can't shake it."

Sometimes my sessions fly by, today I can't wait to be done. Not that I have anything to look forward to after I leave, sometimes I just want to feel like shit and be quiet about it. 

*create smooth transition here*

The hours up. There's nothing I hate more than the drive from therapy to home. I feel so raw and wrung out. Music doesn't sound right but neither does silence. Sometimes, I'll call my dad and let him in on a break through. Sometimes I'll turn on a podcast because I need to think about anything else. Today I drive home on autopilot, not even processing the quiet. 

Pulling into the garage I feel exhausted. Tired in my bones. I hate this house. My ex's parents had bought it for her as an investment before we were married. My lawyer worked some legal magic and got me the house, but now, I wish he hadn't. It feels so hollow and empty, like very movement I make is loud and silent at the same time. I hate it here. It's mine but it's not. I need to get out, but I can't. 

I realize I'm still sitting in the running car, garage door closed, and I immediately cut the engine. After all I've been through, I'm not going out that easy. Sitting in the car, silence drawing in, I feel something. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. My gut tugs. I hold my breath a moment too long. 

Ava's not here, Robbie. You know she's not.   

I slump my way inside. In the kitchen I grab the kettle, fill it with tap water, and place it on the stove. Drinking tea feels so pretentious and un-American, but I've found the ritual of tea a satisfying replacement for the ritual of booze. Kettle warming, I turn the TV on to get some noise going in this goddamn place. No one ever tells you that the TV becomes your loyal companion in the wake of a failed marriage.

Nightly news is on, I'm half listening as I realize I left my laundry in the wash and have to rerun it, most likely to repeat this cycle again tomorrow. My ears perk up at the mention:

"Three women have escaped the St. Theresa Mental Institution today, killing a guard in the process. Two of the women were apprehended on highway 114, but the other is still at large."

The hair standing up on the back of my neck, the pull in my gut, the freeze in my lungs. I finally identify the ping of unease I felt in the garage. It was a smell, faint and fading, of aerosol shampoo. Ava's. She's here.