Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 233

“Try to think about what you wanted from this when you decided to walk through that door,” she says. “Whatever it was, you can only reach it if you let me in.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, fingers locked together. “What if it doesn’t work?” I ask.

Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“This,” I say, motioning vaguely between us. “The talking. It’s fucking with my head even more. It’s like it’s bleeding me out from the inside, and I don’t....” I stop, drag in a shaky breath. “I don’t see how that’s supposed to help. It feels like the opposite. So what am I supposed to do if I rip myself open, suffer through all that, and it’s all for nothing?”

She looks at me for a long moment, expression tightening like she’s digesting something heavy. Then she picks up her notebook again, eyes narrowing slightly. “Is that how it feels, Jax? Whenever you talk about any of it?”

I nod once.

She tilts her head, her tone gentle but pointed. “Could you describe it to me? Whatever it is you feel when you think or talk about it?”

I sigh, drag my hands down my face. “Suffocated. Restless...like I can’t sit still. And angry,” I admit. “So fucking angry.”

She nods slowly, her gaze steady. Then she gestures to the faint dent in the wall behind me. “When you punched that,” she asks, “....was it because of the anger that came from opening up?”

I stay quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the floor. “No,” I say finally. “It was more because I wanted you to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Asking,” I mutter. “I wanted you to stop asking.”

She studies me for a beat, then nods like something just clicked. “I see.”

She stands, smooth and unhurried, and walks over to her desk. I watch her move the chair, one of those plain office ones, turning it to face me before walking back and sitting down again. My brow furrows. I have no idea what the hell this is supposed to be.

“Before we talk,” she says, her voice even and patient, “...let’s just breathe together for a bit. Sometimes words come easier after the body catches up.”

I look at her like she’s speaking another language. But she just sits there, expectant. “Four in,” she says, “hold it for a moment....and then six out.”

I don’t move. She gestures gently. “Go ahead.”

I sigh through my nose, give in. In for four. Hold. Out for six. My chest feels tight at first, but by the third round, something inside me unclenches....just a little. It’s not peace, not even close, but it’s enough to loosen the grip in my throat.

When I open my eyes again, she’s nodding, a faint, satisfied smile on her face. “Good,” she says softly.

Then she gestures to the chair she turned earlier. “Now,” she begins, “I want you to imagine that the part of you that’s angry, restless, suffocated...whatever word fits....could sit in that chair. What do you think he’d say if he could talk freely?”

I blink at her. “You want me to talk to a chair?”

“Just picture it,” she says, calm as ever. “You don’t even have to say much. Just imagine.”

So I do. I stare at that chair for a while, thinking it’s a ridiculous exercise. But then I start thinking about all the things that version of me might say if he actually could talk. The thoughts come out of nowhere and before I can stop myself, I mutter, “He’d probably say he wants to stop all this.”

Her eyes lift slightly. I keep going, quieter. “It’s too much. All of it.”

I look back at her, waiting for the disappointment that should come next. But it doesn’t. She just jots something in her notebook like what I said was perfectly valid. Then, after a moment, she asks, “Would it help if we stayed in the present for a while instead of looking back?”

I turn to the chair again, then back to her. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Okay,” she says with a small smile. “Then let’s do that. If I could understand one thing about what it feels like to be you this week, what would you want that to be? It can be anything, good or bad. Whatever feels safest to talk about today.”

For once, it doesn’t feel like a trap. She isn’t pushing, just waiting. I focus on the ache behind my eyes, the heaviness in my limbs, the kind that never really leaves. And then I hear myself say, “I’m tired.”

It sounds almost foreign.

“Really exhausted,” I add after a second. She nods slowly but her pen doesn’t move this time. And because I know it matters, and because Xander’s voice is still somewhere in the back of my head telling me to try....I swallow hard and add, “I’ve been having a hard time sleeping lately.”

It’s not much. But it’s more than nothing.

“Why do you think that is?” she asks, and the fear comes back again, like something crawling up my spine. Because I know what comes next. If I tell her it’s the nightmares, she’ll ask what they’re about, and I’ll shut down again.

I can already see it playing out. I even consider lying, just to make it easier, to keep her from digging where I don’t want her to. But I know I can’t, she’d probably be able to tell. So I say the truth, even though it burns coming out, even though I hate how small it makes me sound.

I shift in the chair, lean forward. “ I've been having these nightmares,” I say finally.

“Nightmares,” she repeats, like she’s testing the word for weight. “What are they about?”

My pulse starts to pound in my ears. I look away, to the window. There’s nothing outside but the silhouette of a tree bending in the wind. The rest catches somewhere between my chest and my mouth. “I’d rather not get into that.”

She nods immediately, just that quiet acceptance that makes me both grateful and uneasy. “That’s perfectly alright, Jax.”

She waits a beat, then asks, “When did they start? And how often do you get them?”

I think about it. “Few weeks ago,” I mutter. “At first it was every other night, now it’s pretty much every night.”

She hums softly, jotting something down. “Just out of curiosity, did they start around the same time you began the sessions?”

I shake my head. “No. A few days before.”

There’s another pause. Then, “Without telling me what happens in them, can you describe how they make you feel? Either during, or right after you wake up?”

I stare at my hands, my fingers flexing against each other like I need something to hold on to. The words don’t come easy.

“During,” I say slowly, “....it feels like I’m drowning, like being buried under noise. And no matter what I do, I can’t move or breathe.”

My throat burns. I swallow hard.

“Afterwards....” I let out a small, humorless laugh. “It’s like waking up from something that doesn’t want to let you go.”

“That sounds terrifying,” she says quietly.

I just shrug, staring at a spot on the floor where the light cuts across the carpet. Terrifying doesn’t even begin to cover it. But I don’t say that.