The silence in the waiting area was stifling. Amy peered down the short hallway to her right then back towards the clinic’s front door on her left, where a shadowy figure had appeared behind the frosted glass. The door opened with a soft swish. A tall, thin man in a blue checked shirt and tan pants walked into the reception area. He carried a brown satchel in one hand and used the other to sweep his blonde fringe from his glasses.

“Amy? I’m Sam. Sorry, I’m running a little late today. Follow me.”

Why had she worn a dress? She suddenly felt self-conscious in front of this man. Not even Google had turned up much about him. No professional bio, just a concerned parent on a forum asking if anyone had had any psychology sessions with Sam Pharmer.

At the end of the short hallway, fluorescent lights lit up a sparse kitchen highlighting the white coffee mugs left to dry on the bench.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“That would be good, thanks.” She waited while he filled one of the mugs with tap water.

“Here you go.”

Sam handed her the mug, and a little water slopped over the side and ran down her fingers. She switched the cup to her other hand and brushed her damp fingers across her dress to dry them. Why hadn’t anyone asked her if she preferred a female therapist? It wouldn’t have bothered her what she wore. Then again, trauma heightened everything.

“We’re in this room here.”

Stepping behind him into the small room next to the kitchen, she couldn’t help but notice how dim it was. The light filtering through the half-shut blinds threw shadows over the L-shaped desk sitting in the corner beneath it. On either side of the desk, two chairs sat opposite each other. The ticking of a plastic wall clock filled the air.

Sam walked towards the desk and took a seat on the chair closest to the door. “ACC has allocated us eight sessions together.” He pulled a book out of his satchel and placed it on the desk, then waved his hand towards the chair sitting opposite him. “Take a seat.”

Was his casualness an attempt at friendliness? Sitting down opposite him, she held her bag in her lap. It was a small effort to create distance. His relaxed demeanour made her uncomfortable, more vulnerable even.

Sam pulled his iPhone out of his satchel and set it on the desk next to the book. “Do you mind if we do a short meditation to begin? Three minutes.”

“Ah, sure.” Bit of a strange way to start the first session, but after ten years of teaching yoga, she could handle a three-minute meditation.

When Sam’s iPhone chimed, she opened her eyes. He was leaning back in his chair, looking even more relaxed than before if that was possible, with one palm flat on the cover of the book. Printed in bold white letters on the spine were the words “ACT Made Simple.” Huh, mindful therapy. Like Buddhism.

“Thank you, Amy. How did you find that?”

“Different than in a yoga studio.”

“Yoga, that’s right. I read that in your notes. I also read about the flashbacks. And what I want you to do is write yourself a letter. A compassionate letter. Like you would write to a friend who was experiencing trauma.”

Really? Shouldn’t he ask her something first? How was she feeling maybe? Then again, she’d never been to a therapist before. She took the pen and blank sheet of paper he offered. “How about bullet points?”

Sam chuckled.

How was that funny?

“That’s something a CEO would say. A letter like you would write to a friend in your situation.”

She gripped the pen. “A friend who ended up in the emergency department after being assaulted while out on her morning walk?” The pen hovered over the paper. Now she was thinking about one of her girlfriends unable to breathe through a broken nose pegged at the bridge to stop the bleeding. Her curls matted with blood. Two swollen eyes clouding her sight and a face so black and blue, she was unrecognisable. How was this helpful? She felt like someone had their knee pressed against her chest. Her hand rose to cover her now-healed face, a newly formed habit since the assault, but she caught herself in time and willed her hand to relax.

Sam adjusted his glasses and took a deep inhale. Was he about to impart wise words? Maybe she could buy it from a monk in orange robes, but a guy that looked straight out of grad school didn’t have the same effect.

“One day, Amy, I think you’ll be grateful this happened.” Grateful. Huh. Grateful for the memory of shock and pain and fear. Grateful for standing on the edge of the concrete path, facing the dark bushes, blood pouring from her head and nose, running down her clothes. So much blood. Pooling inside the edges of her Nikes, leaving a maroon ring so thick the police had asked if her attacker had tied her ankles.

“No. No, I don’t think I will be.” She set the pen down on the table and reached for the glass of water beside her. She sipped until it was empty.

“My first faux pas as a psychologist.” Sam chuckled again and prodded his iPhone. “We’ve got some time left, but how about you have a go at writing that letter at home. Bring it next week, and we’ll go over it. Same building. Could be a different room though. Ring the bell and wait at reception, like you did today.” He slid the book back into his satchel.

Her stomach hardened. She’d come for help with the anger that wouldn’t leave. And he thought moving straight into gratitude and compassion would help? No idea.

 

---

 

Deva greeted her at the front door when she arrived home. After a customary ear scratch that left Deva’s tail wagging, she headed for the kitchen, plopped her handbag on the counter and poured herself a tall glass of soda water. The late afternoon sun shone through the windows, picking out the rising bubbles in her drink. She’d just sat down on one of the bar stools, grateful to take some weight off her injured knees, when her phone vibrated. She fished through the lipsticks and pens that had permanent residence in her handbag and pulled it out. Detective Harvey flashed across the screen. What now?

“Hi, Detective.”

“Amy, hi, listen, we need your phone. Compared to the other victims, you were the worst, and because you have no memory we have to place the attacker at the scene with you by tracking your phones. An officer will be by tomorrow to pick it up. He’ll have a replacement for you, all right?”

The worst? She gripped the phone like a vise. Why would he tell her that? Like someone wants to know that out of five attacks, they were the worst hit. They copped it the most? Her throat was closing up again. She took a long sip of soda water, but the detective didn’t wait around. The dial tone buzzed loudly in her ear. Why say that? Throwing the phone back in her bag, she noticed the bright yellow Victims Support brochure was still there. It had arrived in the mail a week after everything happened. Not that she’d even known what Victims Support was. The memory of calling the helpline still bugged her. The woman who’d answered was nice, but she’d talked to Amy like she was a china teacup in her grandmother’s cupboard. Fragile and not entirely with it. Survivor’s Support. Better ring to it.

One long friggin’ day. Upstairs in the shower, the warm water on her face wasn’t as soothing as it should have been. Another small pleasure set aside by a new washing ritual. She had to wash the skin around her fractured cheekbone gently, and avoid the spongy dip beside her nose. It hurt like hell if she pressed it too hard. Towelling off was hard also, what with sore knees, a bruised ankle, and a painful elbow. She finally managed to get on her robe and padded back to the kitchen counter downstairs. The pen and blank sheet of paper sat in her handbag. Should try it. Twenty minutes later, and the blank page was beginning to waver in front of her eyes. Was resistance or concussion causing the pulsing through her head? Who knew? Everyone had a different opinion. So hard. Upstairs, she collapsed into bed without pulling back the covers.

A familiar scratching at her bedroom door woke her up the next morning. Sunlight was creeping around the edges of the blackout blinds as Deva nudged her way into the room. “Looks like I surpassed the usual three a.m. wake up, for once.” Deva cocked her head to one side and waited. Sighing, she pushed herself up off the bed. Even if she was tired, at least taking Deva for a walk felt normal. “Come on then. I’ll get dressed.”

As Deva lapped her water bowl dry an hour later, Amy recorded the morning’s walk on her concussion sheet. Steady progress compared to the Work column, where a few ticks of attempted half-hour concentration lay speckled about. Improvement in the concentration department was slow. Coffee time. After pouring a fresh cup, she opened up the calendar on her laptop. Squares of red appointment times littered her schedule. Dr Carter today. Taking her mug with her, she grabbed her car keys and headed out.

The chairs in the ophthalmologist’s reception area were uncomfortable. More waiting. Finally, the tight-lipped receptionist ushered her into Dr Carter’s office. The elderly doctor scanned her referral notes and without asking, began pushing his thumbs around the bridge of her nose. “Assaulted. It’s a very emotional time.” He raised his bushy grey eyebrows. “But the good news is you’ll get used to different breathing patterns over time.”

Really? Her shoulders slumped. Different breathing patterns? That might be difficult. As a yoga teacher, breathing came with the job description.

A police officer was waiting at her front door as she pulled into the driveway. Her hands shook on the steering wheel. She hadn’t seen that blue uniform since the hospital.

“Been to the gym?” The officer nodded at the activewear that had become her recovery staple.

“Not today. Physio says to walk for now. Take it easy, you know.”

The officer’s eyes lingered on her hairline. She’d had the stitches removed, but the taut skin in her scalp was still pink. His gaze felt uncomfortable, but she was getting used to the feeling. Reminding herself he was here to help, she took her iPhone out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Lucky I’ve got my contacts on the cloud.”

“Thanks, we should have your phone back to you in a couple of days.” He took her iPhone and gave her a flip-top in return.

Since the influx of flowers had met the compost bin and the papers had found new stories, most of her nights were quiet ones. Settling into her favourite reading chair usually made her relax, but the memory of the therapist telling her one day she’d be grateful lingered. One day she’d been living everyday life, the next she was in the hospital. Now life was a merry go round of appointments and police visits. And she was being told to be grateful? She hadn’t been able to do anything about the assault, but this was different. Her mind began to work before she’d even opened her computer.

A half-hour later, she placed a tick in the Work column on her concussion sheet, smiling with satisfaction.

Over the next week, in between medical appointments and police calls, the speckled ticks in her Work column grew. By the time her next appointment rolled around, she’d formed a steady chain.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic’s terrible!” Sam walked into the clinic reception area and beckoned her to follow.

He led her down the dim hallway and turned into a different room where the same—but different—corner desk took up most of the space. He pulled the therapy book out from his satchel as he walked over to one of the chairs, took a seat, and placed the book on the desk. “How’d you get on with the letter?”

“Great.” She sat down on the chair opposite him and pulled a folded sheet of paper from her bag.

“Let’s hear it then.”

She straightened up in her chair. “To whom it may concern…”

“Formal so far.” Sam folded his fingers into a steeple on the desk.

“I wish to lodge a complaint about an inappropriate and damaging comment said to me by ACC appointed psychologist Sam Pharmer. During one of our sessions together regarding the physical assault I suffered in October 2019, Sam said: “One day, Amy, you’ll be grateful that this happened.”

Sam’s mouth opened and then closed again before he found a reply. “That can be easy to misinterpret! Studies show that gratitude comes with post-traumatic growth over time.”

Did he base all his sessions on what studies showed? She was tired of letting things go. She met his frown, unblinking. “There are things I’m grateful for. Like my GP, who listens when I tell her how I’m feeling. But studies can be easy to misinterpret. Perhaps those survivors feel grateful for certain outcomes that resulted despite what happened to them, not because of.”

Sam’s eyes followed her hand as she picked her letter back up, then she continued reading. “My concern now is for someone in my position in the future who may not be able to question such a comment. It could be very damaging for any person to believe there is future gratitude to be found in being physically assaulted. Sincerely, Amy Phillips.”

It was the lightest she’d felt in months. “This is your copy. I’ve already emailed one to ACC.”

Sam stared at the folded piece of paper in her outstretched hand but didn’t take it.

“I’ll leave it here.” Placing the letter on top of the ACT book made it hard to ignore. Plus, he wouldn’t leave the clinic without it.

Danielle Ramaekers is a freelance writer, yoga teacher, and naturopath who enjoys using words to help people understand their health better. Not able to indulge her wanderlust traveling the world in 2020, she instead chose to explore creative writing at NZ Writers College. Danielle lives in New Zealand with her family and French bulldog named Lola. If she’s not on the mat or writing, she’s escaped to the beach with a good book. Visit her online at www.dani.nz.