I Got Better.

March 3rd, 2004
I've told Dr. Thrace that I think I'll be alright without any more sessions. She seems reticent to agree with me. She doesn't think a year is enough time for me to "effectively process and resolve the trauma" I've experienced.
"Maybe it isn't," I admitted to her. "Maybe I'll never be completely alright, maybe I will never completely resolve it. Maybe, like my side, I'll always have some mass of scar-tissue memories in my head, spider-webbing into all of my attempts to act like a normal and undamaged human being. But I'm functioning now. I'm keeping a job, making the Dean's List. I'm doing alright."
She frowned. "How's your social life, Laurel? Made any friends? Boyfriends? Lovers?"
I went on the defensive. "I don't have time for -"
"Friends," she finished my sentence. "No time for people. I really don't think you're as healthy as you pretend. What you witnessed has left you damaged, in more ways than you know. We haven't even addressed the impact this incident has had upon your sexual life."
"None," I said tersely. "Because I don't have one."
"Right," she nodded. "No time. Exactly how many men, or women if you prefer, have you even noticed in the last year?"
"Men. None."
"And that doesn't seem abnormal to you? You are, objectively speaking, a very attractive young woman, Laurel. I would have anticipated..."
"What, that I'm a slut?? That I'm pretty and so I try to fill the vacancy my parents left with the nearest penis? I'll let you in on a little secret that's really none of your goddamned business, doc. I went overseas a virgin, I came back a virgin. Nothing I've seen or heard has exactly made me eager to change that." I stood, becoming more furious with every word.
"And this," I gestured, palm down with splayed fingers, "this is getting old."

I haven't seen or intended to see her since I stormed out of her office, last month. I'm thinking of burning this whole thing.