You Are Not Alone(14)
Daphne hadn’t intended to reveal James’s assault to the sisters. She barely knew them after all. But something about them—she couldn’t quite put her finger on what—invited her confidence. They seemed to know exactly what to say to draw her out. As Daphne sat on Jane’s couch, stroking Jane’s pretty little calico cat, Hepburn, Daphne felt less alone.
Cassandra’s eyes had darkened. “James is a criminal. He raped you, Daphne.”
Jane had wrapped an arm around Daphne: “What can we do to help?”
“I don’t know,” Daphne had whispered. “I just want him to pay for this.”
Later the sisters told Daphne that was the moment they knew she was one of them.
They were a group of five: First Cassandra, Jane, and Valerie, then Beth—whom Valerie had gotten to know because they were neighbors in an apartment building—had joined the circle. And shortly thereafter, Beth had brought in Stacey.
Their vote was unanimous: Daphne would become the sixth member.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHAY
Strategies to alleviate panic attacks:
1.??Breathe in through your nose to the count of five, hold it for the count of five, and breathe out through your mouth to the count of five.
2.??Count backward from 100 by 3’s.
3.??Tune into four things you can see, three things you can touch, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste.
*Attempts to enter subway without a panic attack: 12 (none successful)
—Data Book, page 11
I THOUGHT AMANDA’S MEMORIAL service would provide a sense of closure, and things would get better.
But they’re worse.
Nearly two weeks have passed since I saw her jump, and I still can’t get close to a subway. Home is no respite; Sean rarely spends time at Jody’s place because she lives in a tiny two-bedroom with two other girls. So they’re always around, cooking dinner or cuddling on the couch in front of the TV.
I walk and take buses when possible, but sometimes taxis are the only option—like the other day when my bus broke down and I was running late to my temp job. The fares are whittling away at my bank account.
Geography is shaping my choices: I feel like my life is tunneling inward. Instead of visiting the Brooklyn Botanic Garden over the weekend, which always brings me peace, I went to a smaller park a few blocks away. My favorite CrossFit class is in SoHo, but I’ve begun frequenting a little gym that’s only a few blocks away.
Sometimes, when I reach into my tote bag, I think I feel the scrape of a tiny, sharp edge against my fingertips and I’m convinced I’ve found Amanda’s necklace. But it’s just the ridge on my Chap Stick tube, or the bend in the stem of my sunglasses, or the uneven seam at the bottom of my bag. I’ve turned my tote inside out more than once, but it’s never there. I wonder if it’s still glinting somewhere down in the Thirty-third Street subway station.
I dread falling asleep, knowing nightmares await. The worst one yet left me drenched in sweat: I was running down the subway platform, desperately trying to stop Amanda from jumping and knowing I wouldn’t get there in time. Just as I reached for her arm, clawing at empty air as she pulled away, she turned to look at me.
But instead of her face, I was staring into my own.
That’s what made me finally pick up the phone and schedule an appointment with a psychologist. I’d like to say I selected her based on her academic credentials or a referral, but the truth is, I chose my therapist because she is covered by my insurance—and the walk is only eight minutes.
My first session with Paula revolved around goal setting. I was a little nervous when I sat down in her small, utilitarian office on East Twenty-fourth Street, but I reminded myself how common it is to seek therapy: 42 percent of Americans have been in counseling. One in five millennials currently see a therapist—although I never have before.
Paula suggested I set a small objective to work on, and she agreed the one I selected seemed doable.
“It’ll be a good first step,” Paula had said, and I’d smiled, confident I was finally on the right track.
But now, at the start of our second session, as I sit aimlessly moving a tiny rake through a little Zen sand garden while Paula looks over her notes from our last session, I feel as if the hope she offered me has floated away.
Paula finally looks up and smiles. “Okay, then. Did you achieve your goal of touching the green subway railing?”
I put down the rake and cross my arms over my chest, rubbing my hands up and down my bare arms.
I’m aware of Paula’s gaze on me, but I can’t meet hers as I shake my head. “I only got to the edge of the grate.” I feel my throat thicken with the words.
She writes something in her notebook, then takes off her reading glasses. “Have you been trying the other techniques we discussed?”
I lift up my left hand to show her the blue rubber band around my wrist. Paula had told me to snap it hard when the panic began to descend. It’ll distract your mind, she promised. It was one of many remedies she’d suggested, from a gratitude journal to tackling my phobia by breaking it down to a series of steps.
None of it is working. The only thing that has helped me at all is the Ambien I bought off a sketchy Canadian pharmaceutical website. I took it for the first time last night. It delivered oblivion and left me so groggy I slept through my alarm, but at least that’s better than a nightmare.