"So, what are some highs and lows of the week?" Catherine asked me, sitting comfortably in her own chair while gesturing for me to make myself comfortable in the opposite chair. She always started with this question at the beginning of our weekly sessions. A simple question. Yet I always found it a little difficult to answer. Mainly because I couldn't really put my thoughts into words. Sure, I had lows, alright. But I didn't always have an explanation as to why I was having the lows. Sometimes, there were triggers. It was easier in those cases because I could simply say what was bothering me. But in a lot of cases, I simply felt... wrong. If someone were to have asked me, "What is wrong?" All I could think to mutter in response would be, "Everything." Because everything in my life and in the world itself just felt wrong. Felt off. It was like a combination of that fear when you forget something (only not to be sure of what you have forgotten) and that fear of someone asking you, "Notice anything different about me?" And you simply can't for the life of you be certain what has changed. A combination of knowing something or everything is wrong and at the same time not being able to describe what is wrong. It was so frustrating and overwhelming.

With that in mind, I always answered with my generic, "Oh, everything has been about average." Which wasn't a lie. Living in this strange paranoid and fearful limbo was my average. But how do you describe just a feeling to someone who has never experienced it. They can't relate. Like trying to explain color to a blind man. The information simply can't be processed.

"I'd like to do a little bit of a safety check with you." She smiled kindly, "Have you had any intrusive thoughts this week? Any thoughts about harming yourself or someone else?" Another one of her regular questions. I understood it was her job, but there was no way I could be completely honest about this. I didn't want to be taken away from my children.

I answered again with my usual response, "I could never harm anyone else. But I do sometimes have those thoughts that I wish I could sleep forever. Or that I could just poof into nonexistence. But I am not planning on doing anything to cause that. I'm not actively about to make that happen. It's more of just a passive thought that crosses my mind on occasion."

She nodded as I spoke with a minor expression of concern, "And when do you have those thoughts? What is usually going on around you that brings these thoughts to the front of your mind?"

"Oh, nothing, really." I shrugged. Again, I was more just unsure of how to answer. How do I explain it? "It's just a thought that weighs on me at random sometimes. A thought that I could finally have peace and quiet."

"Peace and quiet." She repeated, "From the voices? Do you still hear them?"

I wanted to lie. I wanted to just tell her that I was normal. I didn't like the look people had in their eyes when they talked about this. It just made me feel crazy. Like they were trying to be gentle with a patient in a straightjacket. But, I decided to remain truthful. "I do."

"Do they ever tell you to harm yourself or anyone else?" Another safety check.

"No." I shook my head, "When I hear my children, they speak to me like normal. Even if it's not actually them. When I can hear the men speaking in the other room, I can't ever tell what they're discussing. It always just sounds like a casual discussion between friends in the next room." I knew it sounded dumb. To say it out loud always sounded ridiculous to me. Though my therapist never called me ridiculous. Or crazy, for that matter. Not directly. Only with her eyes did it seem to slip into the room ever so slightly.

"Does the medication you were prescribed help you any?" A fair question.

"I suppose." I was honest, yet again. "Although, I forget to take them sometimes. I'm not sure how often. I can't remember if I take them or not, so in order to be safe, I just don't take them. I really need to get a daily pill holder thing so I can see if I have taken them or not."

"Most certainly." She sounded concerned again, "or set a reminder on your phone." As if I didn't have countless reminders on my phone already for everything I do during the day, "It's self care. It's important for your betterment. We can't tell how well a prescription helps you if you forget to do your part."

"I know." I did feel a little bit childish. To be scolded over something so simple. I would get a pill case. Eventually.

"How are things at home?" Catherine changed gears now to a new topic.

I kept it brief, "They're okay, I guess."

"Well. last time, you mentioned that your husband wasn't very supportive of you. Do you still feel that is the case or have things gotten better?"

Oh. That. Another average that I didn't think to mention. "That's all about the same. He doesn't hear what I hear. The way he looks at me." I felt my face get a little warm in my own pitiful embarrassment. "I can't tell if he thinks I am a liar or thinks I'm insane."

"Has he ever called you either of those?"

"No." I admitted, "But it's in his eyes." I met her eyes now as I spoke, "People can't hide that raw truth that resides in their eyes. You can see when someone is calling you crazy."

"It must feel so isolating and alienating to view things from that perspective, Kimberly. Is holding that position very helpful for you or anyone else? Or do you think that it creates more of a barrier between you and others around you?"

I was a little taken aback by what she said. I wasn't entirely sure how to answer. I felt that barrier she mentioned. There certainly did seem to be something between me and the rest of the world. There had to be. "I don't know." I shook my head, trying to find the right words. "I mean. I feel it. The feeling of..." I searched my brain for words. Anything to make it make sense. "Displacement? Like I don't even really belong here."

"Well, let's explore that a little bit." She suggested, "What do you mean that you don't belong?"

Here we go. She always asked such hard questions. As if it could be summed up so easily in a few words. Especially a few words that were to make sense. I let out a long sigh while I let a few thoughts bounce around in my head. What could I say to express it well enough for her to understand? "I don't know." I said this often in my sessions, "Like... everything is wrong? The world is wrong? Like waking up to find yourself in an alternate dimension. One that is so similar to your previous dimension that you'd almost be fooled into thinking you were in the right space. But the new dimension is... off. Ever so slightly. Just enough that you can't settle into it because it just isn't right. Like when you put on your shoes after someone else has been wearing them. The feeling is all awkward and uncomfortable. Warm in the worst way."

"What do you find different about the world that makes it feel wrong?"

"It isn't anything specific." I knew I wasn't making any amount of sense. Nothing I was saying was helping my case, "It just is. It's just that overwhelming feeling. That creeping notion that every aspect of this world is either altered or... it's a new place entirely."

"Different in a bad or unsafe way?" She pressed.

"I mean. If you ignore the persistent feeling of impending doom." I scoffed.

"Where do you feel that threat coming from? A person?"

"I can't say for certain." I thought about it again for a moment. She left me to sit in silence for a few seconds to collect my thoughts, "My stalker?"

She nodded. I could see her mulling over a few thoughts herself now. Trying to figure out how to handle me and which response to give. Her eyebrows creased, "That sounds so scary. If you had a stalker who meant to do you harm, would you be able to reach out to authorities for help? Do you have means of protecting yourself?"

"Of course, it is scary. But I can't go to the police."

"Why not?"

"I have no proof of anything. I can't just tell them that I think someone is following me. They would need proof of some kind of threat."

"I see." She pointed out, "So, you can acknowledge that there haven't ever been any threats towards you or your children."

She was only trying to be helpful, but sometimes she made me feel dumb. "No." I had to agree with her. "No open threats have ever been made. But that doesn't stop them from watching and waiting. Biding their time."

"What would the right time be?" She asked.

"How would I know?" I tossed my hands up, lost. "Probably just waiting long enough in the shadows to make me feel crazy. Like they are gaslighting me or something. Because no one believes me that there is someone out there."

"What would they gain from such an elaborate scheme?" She challenged my words. "Realistically? What is in it for them to make you look crazy?"

"I don't know..." Every time I was made to explain my thought process, I found that I repeated this answer a lot. Because it was the truth. I didn't know. None of it made sense, I knew that. Not even to myself half the time. I could only imagine how wild it sounded from the outside.

"Is it more realistic that someone is following you for no discernable reason? Or that maybe these instances of when you think someone is watching you, for it to just be a coincidence?"

I felt a little defeated. I knew it was all so silly. Realistically, she was right. I could admit that. "You make sense." I confessed, "But... even if the stalker isn't real... the sheer fear and panic are. Why can't I stop feeling this way?"

"That's what the medication is for." She affirmed her previous statement. "To help stabilize your emotions and reduce your paranoia."

Well, if that wasn't a checkmate, I wasn't sure what was. She got me there.