Final Truth

Chapter 82: One Travels Far

Julia's point of view:

The first sessions were the hardest.

Characterized by my resistance to speak, by the memories coming after me with teeth and claws, by shouting and frustration and the horrible thought that this wouldn't work, that I was incurable.

I wanted to give up, and I would've done so had a smaller, braver part of myself not reminded me that I had one wish, one wish that grew stronger each time I thought I was failing myself.

The wish to live again.

My poor therapist, Dr. Vaiden, saw me through the worst of it all, frequently on the receiving end of my anger when I needed to yell at something, anything. But that woman, despite her warm countenance and sweet disposition, is tough as nails and stronger than any problem I could throw her way. Coupled with the fact that she has the power of truth, she knew what lies I wanted to tell about my experiences before I even said them.

It was a learning process for both of us, how to navigate through what worked and what didn't work when it came to helping me get better. But at the insistence of Dr. Vaiden, all my friends, and that small voice within, I stuck it out.

And no matter how badly those first few appointments went, they were times when I wasn't locked in my house, wasn't sleeping on the floor, wasn't turning my thermostat all the way to freezing.

Dr. Vaiden said that had to count for something.

As time went on, I was able to stop looking at my therapy sessions as a beast to be defeated, as something I had to fight against with every part of me. Because on the occasions I where I managed to open up a little, I could feel the weight on my shoulders getting lighter. When I spoke, it was like I could see the physical manifestation of my horror leave my body and disintegrate into the air, losing its power over me for the moment being.

It sometimes came back when I was alone, but never as strongly as before.

Dr. Vaiden gave me goals to meet between each appointment, little ones so as not to overwhelm me. She told me this would be a process, but that we'd get through it together, that we'd start out small and work our way over all my mental hurdles. She'd write down what she wanted me to do, things like increase the temperature in your home by three degrees, or take a walk outside, weather permitting, or talk with friends, or try sleeping on the couch instead of the floor. I wasn't able to always meet every goal for the week, but I could manage a few, and she said it was still progress either way.

Months went by like this, me trying to accomplish the small things so I could slowly drain the fear from my system. I'm not to the point where I can treat my memories as a thing of the past yet, but I am getting better. That much I know to be true.

"Little by little, one travels far," I'm reminded on occasion.

And looking back now, I suppose I have travelled far over these grueling months. Dr. Vaiden helped me plan out a better meal system so I would gain back the weight I lost in prison. The nightmares have been milder, and the voices have gotten quieter in the passage of time. I spend more and more time with my friends, coming back out of my shell in increments to laugh with them once again. I slept in my bed for the first time a few nights ago.

But it isn't always so rosy. Despite my good days increasing in number, there are still bad ones, too. Bad enough to make me miss a session sometimes, bad enough to send me into fits, bad enough where I blackout and wake up shaking. Those bad days are becoming less frequent, but I'm always encouraged to talk about them, to give it a voice so that I can formulate a plan with my therapist to combat it.

It was in the aftermath of one of my bad days that we found a good outlet to help process the fear.

Dr. Vaiden gave me a journal to write in when the memories come for me, to write about what I see and what the voices say to me. And once I finish writing, I tear the paper out of its bindings and burn it at my fingertips, repeating a mantra in my head as the paper disintegrates to ash:

You have no power over me.

It's a mantra that's not completely true, not yet, but I know that it will be, one day. And each time I burn a piece of paper that contains things like you are nothing, you are weak, you are helpless, each time I watch the words eaten away by a fire that I control, a fire that is enough to make the words no more than ash, I believe that mantra a little more.

I've gone through one journal and half of a second one in the months since we discovered this little trick, but it's been the most productive part of the process. Lately though, there have been times where I didn't even need the paper, where I was able to silence the flashbacks before they got too bad with you have no power over me, and that was the end of it for the time being. Those moments are rare, but they give me hope each time I can manage it.

I still have a long way to go, and it may take years before I'm back to what was once my version of normal. I may never even get to that point, but given my progress, I know I can at least get within range. I'm not the same person I was when I first received my powers so long ago, not by a long shot. Too much has happened for me to go back to that state. I'm older, more jaded at the edges and hardened by what I've seen, but I'm also learning to smooth myself out. Learning to love life once again.

So now, as I sit in my living room, wrapped in blankets and comfortably warm, I pull out the journal to write something Henley once told me a lifetime ago, words that I feel strong enough to let go of.

I can promise you, you will not have a happy ending to this.

Cruel words spoken through an old test, still seething with her hatred of me and what I was capable of. Words that I defy each day as I go on living and healing.

I slowly pull the paper out of its holding, giving the words one last look before crumpling them into bent fragments and letting my palm come alight in flames.

"You have no power over me," I whisper into the night, burning the page into blackened nothingness, into ash, into fragments so small and insignificant that for the first time, I believe my mantra with everything in me.

And when the ash settles and the fire goes out, I'm able to lean back and smile at the momentary freedom the release gives me, feeling light enough to fly.

I'm at peace.