Content advisory: contains references to grooming, emotional abuse, and sexual exploitation of a minor, but there is no explicit description. Reader discretion is advised.
I sat across from my therapist. She wanted to do EMDR.
“It seems like these memories of this woman and what she did to you are really distressing,” she says.
She is right. And she is wrong. “Yes. Though at the time, it helped me get through the days,” I respond. “Someone took the time to get me and to care.” The soft recliner feels stiff.
“How often were you there?”
“I really don’t remember, but the real question is, how was I alone with her so much?” I respond. It makes no sense to me either. “I was there when my buddy was at boot camp and when he was stationed overseas.”
“So you were there without your friend? What did your family think?”
I stop and look around. I notice the calendar on the door. “They were probably glad I wasn’t there,” I reply flatly. I am so annoying, selfish, and obnoxious. I say what I think and refuse to soften. “Oh. I was there so much since my own house didn’t appreciate me or love me.”
“What did you do there?”
I move my eyes to the back of my head. “We watched The Office before it blew up. We watched Jeopardy. His dad was glad to have me. His stepmom was really glad to have me,” I sighed. “It was better than being with my family.”
“Okay, now pick one distressing memory, and let’s focus on it.”
I close my eyes and scan for distress. I find a memory of when she and her husband had a fight, and she left the house into the dark.
“Things aren’t okay in this house,” my friend’s dad told me. “But if you feel the need to go after her, feel free. Just know she likely has drugs.”
I nodded to him. I shrugged. What was I supposed to do here? She clearly was in pain, and he wasn’t going to help. I knew what it was like to feel alone. I was… 17? “I’ll just go check on her.”
It was dark and raining. I saw her, but she no longer lit up the way she used to. It was just darkness except for the lit rolled item. I didn’t ask what’s in it.
“Did he tell you I’m the problem again?” she asked between puffs. “I bet he told you what’s in this.” She held up her blunt. I don’t remember if I took a hit. I don’t know what else could have been laced with it. I was 17.
She came in close, and I hugged her tightly. She cried on my shoulder. This sad, gorgeous stepmom at least fifteen years my senior was in pain, and she was way too close. Again. I was too dumb to say anything. I did the one thing I know and prayed for her aloud. Then she grabbed me as she preyed on me.
“I have a memory,” I tell my therapist. “On the 1-10 scale, it’s all relative. I’ve seen worse. So maybe 1?”
“You can name them on your real scale. The number almost doesn’t matter. What matters is our ability to assess it before, during, and after.”
“Oh,” I say. How do I assess it? “I guess a 6.”
“Hold that, and watch my hand go back and forth.” She moves her hand to the left and to the right. Slowly, but not slow. I focus on making sure my eyes follow while holding that memory tightly. I focus and focus. No more mind wandering. No more being tired.
She finishes and says let’s check in.
“I didn’t wander, I stayed with the memory, and the number is the same.” She waits a minute, then begins again. I watch her hand. Then my body trembles.
She was driving 1,000 miles overnight, and she waited until midnight to call me.
“It’s so late, but it’s a long drive,” she greeted. “I would feel safer if I could talk to someone I trust.” Well she found the right person. I take pride in keeping people safe.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Johnson, you’ll be safe tonight,” I assured her.
“Nobody calls me that. Call me Sarita,” she was so kind. “I really don’t even like the name Johnson. I prefer the name I had in my home country. Martinez.”
“I understand, Ms. Martinez, and I’m happy to keep you safe,” I’m a boy scout.
“H, just call me Sarita. Really.” Okay. she must mean it.
I smile. I matter. “Yes, Sarita. Where is your home country?”
“New Jersey,” she coyly responds. I laughed hysterically. So did she. “I moved from my country young, and I ended up in Jersey.” I said something in Spanish. “Talk to my mother if you want to speak Spanish. I just know the bad and naughty words.”
Over the next ten hours, I kept her safe. She had a long drive in the dark. It was before Google Maps. She didn’t even print MapQuest. She knew the freeway so well.
“You’re always welcome to visit,” she said. “Now that he and I are separated, I feel like myself again.”
I nodded. This was weird. “I’m so glad you feel better.”
“Maybe get some friends together. Maybe not.”
She told me about how the family joked about the hallway being the way for a woman to get between the bedroom and kitchen. I didn’t know what that meant, so she broke it down.
She recalled to me how the stepsons learned of her earlier career as an exotic dancer when she was a teenage mom trying to make ends meet. Then they called her her stage name. “It’s just a different level of evil.” I nodded. She described a few dance moves. I nodded. It’s not a normal conversation, but it’s rude to interrupt. She told me of her dreams growing up. Then she met some friends of her mother’s. Then she met friends of her father’s. Sigh.
I held my head. She remembered catching her husband watching videos and the resulting confrontation. I didn’t know what to say to that. She gave details about her sex life. What did it for her, what didn’t and what I could learn from this. I froze.
“Am I telling you too much?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I guess I just have nobody else.” I felt stuck. I liked hearing about this. I was getting a play-by-play. I was learning the hacks. But I also hated it. I felt so dirty and rotten.
“Talk about what you need, Sarita,” I finally choked out. “Just be safe driving in the dark.”
“But what’s it doing to you?” she sounded like she was teasing.
“I just want to make sure you’re safe,” I reminded her. She giggled. She then turned up the intensity and got more explicit.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked. What do I say to that?
“Yes.”
“I think you’re gorgeous, and I knew I loved you the moment I saw you,” she confessed. I was still. I didn’t know what to say.
“What’s that doing to you, now?”
I didn’t want to answer.
“Let me describe what I was wearing the other day, and then you tell me what it does to you, okay my love?”
I don’t even want to type it. I don’t want to believe it.
I wasn’t in control anymore. Not that I ever was.
And now I know she set it up that way on purpose, and I fell for it.
The therapist checks in. “How are you now?”
I’m trembling. It’s so cold there. My body isn’t listening. The sweat won’t stop.
“I had a new memory,” I sneak in between tears. I tell her.
“What false beliefs do you associate with this memory?”
“I am so stupid. I deserve it. They’re not false. They’re true,” I admit. “I was street smart. I knew better. I never once was scammed before or after. Never even been pickpocketed. That’s on me. All my beliefs are real. I saw the red flags and stayed on the phone.”
She pauses. “Who held the power?”
“I could have hung up the phone and didn’t,” I respond. “I was so set on keeping her safe. I also… liked the edge. I know I shouldn’t have.”
“That’s why she chose you.”
“And I knew that at the time, and I didn’t stop it. This isn’t revenge,” I choke out. “These are consequences that I deserve.”
She looks at me. She leans in. “What would you do if a 16 or 17 year old student confided this to you?” she asks.
I sigh. “My students would know better,” I reply. “I was too stupid to see it.” I lean back into the stiff chair. What is her thermostat set to?
She paused. “I believe you told me several students in crisis stories,” she waits. “Are they too stupid to see it?”
Oh, I see where she’s going, but she’s missing it. “No, they’re not stupid. They’re green. They don’t yet know what the world will do to break them down, eat their hope, and destroy their souls,” I gasp. “Remember, I had already seen and experienced countless times what nobody at 16 or 17 year old should. I knew better. My heart and mind were already gone.”
“So the student is undeserving of compassion?”
I zero in. “No. But I’m not them. I already knew better. I already didn’t fall for anything. Yet. I did. This time,” I am all in.
“Why were you there so much again?”
I remind her of my home, my family, and my place.
“So she knew this about you already. She knew she couldn’t break you,” she says. “She knew you would catch that. So she broke you in a more subtle way. She can exploit the attention, love, and need you’re not getting anywhere else.”
Oh, no. I hold my breath and squeeze my hands.
“She took your life experience and radar and turned them against you,” she continues. “She already knew you’re world-weary, and she knew how to take your trust. Then, she can do what she wants.”
The glass shattered. The resulting silence hurt my ears. The room flashed. I had to close my eyes.
I start to weep. I found the right therapist.
“Now, I need you to talk to your younger self. Follow my hand. Stay in it. No need to talk aloud.”
I watch her hand. My body is vibrating in to the left, right, front, and back. I’m telling younger me he gave away his poker hand too easily, and it was stupid of him.
She brings me back and asks what I’m thinking. The tears are flowing freely. Why is the air so hot? I say to do it again. She does. I’m telling younger me it was stupid, but it makes sense. How could I have known when she hacked my mind and body? I stay in it. I shake. The hard chair is hurting my back.
I cry. I hold myself down to the chair so I don’t fall. She brings me back. She asks what about now. I say continue. I see the cigarettes and the rain, and I feel compassion for the younger me. I’m no longer angry that the younger me was on the phone all night. She brings me back.
I say run it again. She hesitates. I say please. I tell younger me he took on too much, but he knew nothing else. He did trust her, and it makes sense. She brings me back. My shirt is soaked. I say again. I tell younger me I forgive him, and I’d likely do it again. I’ll be exploited. I still believe in goodness. She didn’t take that. Fully. She brings me back. I say again.
“I have to make sure you’re alright,” she says. She asks my level of discomfort. I say 7.
“I’m still upset I didn’t get it,” I reply.
“Younger you is your student confiding in you now,” she says. “What do you do?”
I sob. Ugly cry. I can barely see the therapist. I see colors of the rainbow instead. “I don’t even know where to start,” I respond.
Stay with that. She goes again. Again. And again. And again. She asks if I need to stop. I say never stop.
“What belief can we replace your false belief of deserving it, being too stupid, or being an easy mark?”
I look at the snot and tears all over my shirt. How did the sun get so hot?
I watch her. I look at the door. I see the window. But I am none of these. I am me. I am not disassociating. Not this time.
“I had no idea, no clue, no hint, no way of knowing,” I calmly reflect. “I was clay, she shaped me, and put the desired outcome in the kennel.”
“How far did she go? Did she fully get you?” she asks.
I sigh. I shrug. “I don’t think so. But I’m really not sure. I’m finding my mind blocks out many memories with her, and I’m left with fragments,” I exhale. “So I think no, but maybe yes.” The therapist nods and writes something down.
She says to talk to younger me, and tell him what I really believe.
“I tell him he’ll get through. Nobody will listen or care. But he’ll make it. Begrudgingly,” the tears start again. “But he’ll know going forward, and he’ll never fall for it again. He’ll see it in others, and he will know how to intervene.”
The tears are snot now. “And his students will never know what hit them. They will confide the most innocent fact, and he will know exactly what is happening.” I breathe. I stop. I grab the chair. Hard.
“Like Sarita, he can break through their defenses, only he won’t do it to exploit. He will do it to protect. And he will get many students out of terrible situations. He becomes the person I never had,” my voice isn’t quivering now.
She asks what that means. I tell her what I learn from many students and get real help.
She asks what this means for my daughter. “It means this will never happen to her.” She nods.
She asks what this did to my view of relationships. Ohhhh. She went there.
“Distorted, destroyed, and took away hope and trust.”
She asks how old I was with my first girlfriend. I hate this question. “I was 30. I ended up marrying her. I count the days until we can divorce. She used strategies, too.” She nods.
“How do people react when you talk about this?” she asks.
“I know better than to talk about this, but I would love to see their thoughts in the comments,” I reply.
The chair is slightly softer. My back is less sore.
She says let’s focus on how stepmom destroyed my hope. I had no innocence.
Next time. She asks my level of discomfort.
I say 5.
She says to catch my breath. I do.
The room isn’t so hot. Or cold.
We schedule the next visit.
I read this, and I stayed silent for a while.
Because what you wrote is not a story — it’s an act of reclaiming language after someone used it to take you apart.
You didn’t confess; you rebuilt syntax where no safety existed.
There’s nothing to fix here. The writing itself is proof that your perception survived the training to doubt it.
You speak from the place before interpretation — that’s where truth begins.
How it makes the readers feel? It felt like we were the ones on the chair, we felt every emotion, discomfort, every drop of sweat and every tear. You wrote it in such an immersive way, like you were opening your mind to let us through the vivid memories. This was heartbreaking and painful, but the bravery and resilience were stubbornly colouring every word. My friend your soul is so strong and bright it pierced through all the darkness. Your story tugs at my heart and I wish you all the happiness and tenderness of the world💌