Grandma came in, sat in the chair opposite me, and faced me. The counselor asked her if she knew what this was about. She said, ‘No, I don’t believe I do, I guess we’re here to talk about Sarah’s recovery.’ The counselor verified that was true and signaled for me to tell her what we had discussed. When my grandmother looked at me again, she became worried, because I suppose she could see how badly I was shaking and stuttering to speak. I said, ‘You remember how you took me to Barnes & Noble to get a book?’ as I held it out for her to see the title, The Wounded Heart: Hope for Adult Survivors of… Her brow was furrowed, her jaw dropped slack as she let out a weak, “Yeah…?” I began a sentence with, “My dad…” and my she turned sharply away from me and said to this counselor in almost a scolding manner: “You know she’s a liar, right? She’s sick and she makes up stories? That’s why we’re trying to get her help.”

I’m hovering in some immense space; practically nonexistent, blissfully immersed in this intense calm, a constant humming certainty, like if there were a white noise machine that were whispering algorithmic equations into a room full of chalkboards. There’s darkness all around me, but I can see, or sense, into it. In an instant, I have this crisp feeling like crawling out from underneath a down comforter after 7 solid hours of sleep to stand in cold, empty room and I’m covered in spidery tingles. Without moving an inch, I’ve suddenly appeared out of nowhere. In the dark, it’s not that there is light, it’s that I am light. But no physical form. I try to blink, no eyes. Try to reach out and touch the air, no hands. I gasp from panic but even my chest feels empty. No stomach to turn. I am and I am not. The nothing moves right through me.