Page 151 of Twisted Needs

“I know,” I murmur. But hearing someone else say it still helps.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I blurt, “I’m scared for him to read something I wrote.”

Helen tilts her head slightly. “The story?”

I nod once. Apparently I’d mentioned it briefly in an email last week while rescheduling this appointment. I barely remember doing that. “He already asked to read it,” I continue, rubbing nervously at my thumb with my opposite hand. “And I said yes, obviously, because what else was I supposed to say? But now I’m thinking about it too much, y’know…and I’m just really worried, I guess.”

“What specifically are you worried about?”

I exhale slowly. “It’s just…” I struggle briefly for the right explanation. “The story was written before anything really good ever happened between us. Before Parker and I were…” I gesture vaguely. “Whatever this is now.”

“A relationship?”

“Okay, well. Hearing you say it out loud is horrifying, but yeah. He’s my boyfriend. I’m his.”

Helen laughs softly.

“But the point is,” I continue, “it was written during a really bad period of my life, and I think reading it is going to make him realize how…long I’ve actually been in love with him.”

“And that scares you?”

“Yes.” The answer comes immediately. “Because it’s intense. Like…clinically concerning, probably.” Helen gives me a look. “I’m kidding,” I mutter. Mostly.

She smiles slightly before leaning forward a little closer toward the camera. “Anderson, you are catastrophizing something that hasn’t even happened yet.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know how Parker is going to react.”

“I know.” I groan quietly, dropping my head back against the chair.

She’s totally right. I have a habit of trying to emotionally prepare myself for every possible negative outcome before it can happen, as though anticipating pain somehow softens the blow. It never actually works, but apparently my brain still insists on attempting it anyway because it hates me.

“What’s the worst-case scenario here?” Helen asks.

“Uhh…” I stare at the ceiling for a second. “He realizes I’ve been emotionally unwell for years, maybe.”

Helen laughs immediately, “I think he may already know that, honey.”

I laugh, dragging both hands down my face.

“He loves you,” she says more gently. “And from everything you’ve told me, he seems extraordinarily emotionally attuned to you. So let him read it. Let him know the real you. Stop trying to manage everyone else’s reactions before they’ve even had them.”

I sigh.

“Communication,” Helen reminds me pointedly. “It’s a good thing.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to build intimacy while simultaneously hiding every vulnerable part of yourself.”

“That lowkey sounds fake.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for me to lie to you.”

The advice immediately feels right. Nothing about this feels easy, but it’s definitely manageable, maybe. And lately, manageable feels close enough to peace that I’m willing to take it.

Maybe that’s what being healthy actually looks like. It’s not the absence of problems or simply having all the answers. Maybe it’s just looking at the next difficult thing in front of you and believing you can live through it.