. . .

. . .

~

"Allah is the Protector of those who have faith: from the depths of darkness, He will lead them forth into light." (Qur'an 2:257)

~

To make good on her favor to Haroun, Zoya sits in front of the therapist, huffing and sighing and making exaggeratedly loud noises.

The therapist — Ms. Fray — smiles at her, having tried conversation for the past fifteen minutes with minimal answers from Zoya. Especially after Zoya had entered — froze — and basically ordered the therapist to remove the lamp from her table. This doesn't seem to faze Ms. Fray at all, though, as she continues to prod Zoya with casual conversation as well as carefully worded questions. Questions that seems so well versed and practiced that Zoya can only wonder what kind of training these people receive.

Three days pass with Zoya busying herself in work, going home, and then traveling incognito to her therapy sessions. Ms. Fray gives her an indecipherable smile every time Zoya enters, tugs her hoodie off, and snags the band out of her hair, but the woman says nothing more.

As much as Zoya does not want to admit it, the sessions are growing on her. She no longer despises entering the therapist's room and slowly, slowly, she is learning to be less snarky when Ms. Fray talks to her.

"Okay, Zoya," Ms. Fray says a couple days later, that smile still on her face. "We're gonna try something. Are you ready?"

"Do I have a choice?" Zoya replies.

Ms. Fray nods. "Of course you do."

Zoya is surprised by this answer. "Okay," she says with a shrug.

Ms. Fray gestures to her reclining couch, and Zoya giggles. "Ah, this is the part where I lie down and you hypnotize me to reveal all of my life's darkest secrets. Like in the movies."

The therapist shakes her head and guides Zoya to the couch. "Nope, no hypnosis."

Zoya lies down, fanning her curls over her chest. She pulls her knees up, then stretches them back down, then proceeds to organize the bangles on her wrist.

"Try to relax, Zoya, alright?" Ms. Fray advises. Zoya halts motion, sighing. She stares up at the ceiling, the cool upholstered leather beneath her back calming her down. "Good," comes Ms. Fray's voice. It sounds strangely soft and soothing. Like ripples in a cool summer pond. Zoya's muscles loosen.

"Now Zoya, tell me about your day."

Zoya's eyes flit to the clock. "Well, I'm usually at home by now."

"How about you tell me what you're thinking? Tell me anything at all. Whatever comes to your mind."

Whatever comes to your mind.

This is more control than Zoya is accustomed to. Too much, all at once. Zoya gains control by snatching it, not by it being handed to her.

Suddenly, she doesn't know how to act.

"Um . . . okay." Zoya swallows. "Anything?"

"Anything."

"Okay. Well, I guess I could start with work. Usually, I'm at home and working on something for the company right now but strangely enough, even though I don't really want to be here" — Zoya gives the therapist a calculating look — "I feel like I would rather be here than doing Zameer work."

Ms. Fray nods, not at all cowed by Zoya's blunt confession.

"I don't know why. I've recently been feeling very frustrated with work. It all seems so . . . shallow?" Zoya scrambles around for the right words. For some reason, she finds herself wanting to speak more, as she has started to feel for the past few sessions with this therapist. It's a strange feeling, especially in front of someone who isn't Haroun. "I told my husband that I feel like my work serves no purpose, that it's merely something I do to pass time. And even the time that is passed doesn't seem like time well spent."

Zoya continues to voice her concerns, continues to ramble on and on, like a thick and stiff spool in her is finally coming undone. Ms. Fray sits there with a clipboard in her lap but pays no heed to it as she hangs on to Zoya's every word, nodding here and there to prod her to continue.

When Zoya seems to have spent her breath, she laughs almost nervously. "You should've told me to shut up."

Ms. Fray shakes her head. "That is the opposite of what I'm here for." Pause. "When did you get married, Zoya?"

Zoya tenses. The first time or the second time? "Um — a couple weeks ago. Why?"

"Do you feel like your work has started to seem shallow since you married?"

On the recliner, Zoya ponders for a moment. "No. No, it started before that."

"Mhm." The therapist nods. "Let me put it this way: Do you think your feelings about your work have changed since you met the man who is now your husband?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"Okay. And Zoya, do you think this change has been forced on you?"

Zoya lifts her head and furrows her brows. "No. Not at all. On the contrary, I feel like being around him automatically pushes me to be a better person."

Ms. Fray nods. "Encouraging growth and change in one another is an important factor in nurturing a healthy relationship." At these words, Zoya smiles tentatively. "Okay, Zoya. We're gonna try something, alright? I'm going to say a word, and you tell me whatever word first comes to your mind in response to it. Don't think about it too much. Just say whatever comes to your mind. Okay?"

Zoya examines her nails. "M'kay."

"Alright, let's start." Pause. "Pain."

"Ubiquitous."

"Happiness."

"Short-lived."

"Politicians."

Zoya's brows knit. "Eloquent."

At this, Ms. Fray's lips quirk, but she continues in a composed, professional manner. "Power."

"Manipulative."

"Love."

Zoya twirls a curl around her finger. "I'm thinking of two words."

"Which word pops out?"

"Consuming."

"And the other word?"

Zoya swallows. "Destructive."

Ms. Fray nods. "Desire."

"Sickening."

The therapist writes something down on her notepad. Then, before asking Zoya anything else, Ms. Fray leans forward and smiles at her. A sincere, open smile.

Zoya gives her a tentative smile back.

"Zoya, do you have frequent nightmares?"

At this, Zoya blanches. The question throws her off completely, but she attempts to feign indifference. "I'm sorry?"

"Do you have nightmares often?"

She hesitates before replying, "yes."

"Panic attacks?"

Pause. "Sometimes."

Ms. Fray nods. There is no hint of remorse or pity on her face. It is detached and entirely professional, prodding Zoya to relax a bit. "Zoya, when you came in here a couple days ago, you asked me to remove the lamp from my table." Zoya nods slowly. "Does my lamp in particular bother you or do you have an aversion to all lamps?"

"All lamps," Zoya whispers.

"Okay, and is there any particular reason you don't like lamps? If so, would you like to share that with me?"

Zoya hesitates, hand frozen in her hair. Would you like to share that with me? No force, no coercion. It is a clear choice for Zoya. She has every right to say "no."

Instead, she nods shakily. "They're just . . . a bad reminder of the past."

"Is there anything else in particular that disturbs you? Any object, any place, any person even?"

"I don't like . . . porcelain dishes. Or darkness." Zoya's eyes dart to the therapist. "Men, sometimes. And . . . touching people."

Ms. Fray makes a note on her clipboard, not at all fazed. Her eyes flit to Zoya's clenched fists, then back to her clipboard. "Are any of these fears related to one another?"

"They all are." Zoya's breath starts to come in shallow gasps.

"In what way, if you would like to tell me?" Zoya stays silent, unable to form words. "Okay, Zoya, relax. This is a safe space, alright? You're at ease here." At the soothing lilt in the woman's voice, Zoya's shoulders loosen.

"You mentioned human contact," Ms. Fray continues. "You don't like touching people or you don't like it when people touch you?"

"Is it not the same thing?"

"In which situation do you have more control?"

Zoya hesitates. "I don't particularly like either, but I really don't like it when people touch me."

Ms. Fray nods. "Do you get uncomfortable when your husband touches you?"

"No. It was difficult to get used to at first, but now it doesn't bother me."

"Did he force contact on you in any way?"

"No. Not at all. He's been so understanding about —" Zoya stops, clamps her lips shut.

"Yes?" The woman prods gently.

"About it all."

She nods, having figured out Zoya is hesitant to continue the topic. "You mentioned being afraid of men sometimes. Is your husband included in this bracket?"

"No. I actually feel safer around him than women."

"Sounds like you're really affectionate towards your husband," Ms. Fray remarks.

Zoya's responding smile lights up her eyes. "You couldn't know him and not be affectionate towards him."

"Okay, Zoya. You mentioned not being fond of darkness. Would you want to elaborate on that?"

Her smile vanishes as she gulps. "I just . . . bad things used to happen at night."

"Like nightmares?"

"Sometimes." Silence, then, "Like . . . pain." Suddenly, she feels absolutely foolish for saying that. She squeezes her eyes shut.

"Don't worry, Zoya," Ms. Fray coaxes. "Everything's okay in here, alright?" Zoya nods tentatively, once again comforted by the woman's soothing tone After a moment, she asks, "Does your father fall into the bracket of men you fear?"

"No. And I haven't seen him for years now."

"Does he live far?"

Zoya laughs mirthlessly. "Something like that."

Ms. Fray nods, not pushing her. "Okay, Zoya. Thank you for trusting me with all this."

There it is again. Someone thanking her for trust.

The woman continues to ask Zoya questions and converse with her in an entirely relaxed manner, continually reassuring her that this is a safe space. A while later, she says, "We'll stop here for today, alright?"

Zoya's eyes flit to the wall clock in surprise. "It's been an hour?"

The therapist laughs. A tinkly, comforting sound. "Time flies when you're having fun, doesn't it?"

Zoya pushes her palms into the upholstered leather and sits. "Thanks. That wasn't too bad."

"I'm glad you were willing to give yourself a chance."

. . .

After a couple more sessions and a signed consent form for Ms. Fray to have a collateral visit with Zoya's husband, Haroun sits in front of the woman. He nods along as she explains some things to him.

"Mr. Suleiman, your wife may be showing signs of PTSD, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I would highly suggest seeking the help of an exposure therapy expert so that Zoya can work on controlling some of her fears, since they are disrupting her daily life. But I just wanted to say that I'm so glad you were able to convince her to come here. It has already been so long, there are so many repressed memories, so much going on, and she has a lot of baggage to unearth.

"Mr. Suleiman, what I need you to understand is that victims of domestic abuse such as your Zoya hesitate to address this pain because it can be — understandably — overwhelming. They do not want to go to therapy or accept any sort of help because they may feel embarrassed or ashamed about their experiences. What a lot of trauma victims tend to do is shove everything from their past into a place they don't intend on retrieving it from. They have a tendency to repress all memories of their trauma. Zoya has done the same. What I mean is, she has decided to take her past and shove it all in a suitcase." Ms. Fray pauses. "But just because she hasn't opened that suitcase in a long time doesn't mean she's not still carrying the weight of it. It can be dangerous to hold such feelings in." She folds her hands in front of her.

"I need you to understand that healing takes time. And that families of survivors have especially important roles to play in order to ensure that victims of domestic abuse or any kind of trauma can feel safe around others again." The therapist pauses and Haroun listens intently. "That being said, however, it's also important for Zoya to understand that her loved ones are a step on the way to recovery, not the entire ladder. Mr. Suleiman, Zoya is incredibly attached to you." She pauses, and Haroun nods slowly, a distressed expression on his face. "I have spoken to her about this. Her attachment to you, from an outsider's perspective, can be viewed as a little unstable and unhealthy. She is very reliant upon you to be the solution to her problems. Does that make sense?"

Haroun nods. "Yes. I've tried talking to her about this, too."

"Right. Now when we talk about different attachment styles, we attribute them to the first few months of infancy. But depending on what an infant experiences during that crucial time, the type of attachment can carry on into adulthood. If a child experiences comfort, safety, and quick responses to their needs during infancy, they likely develop safety and security in their attachments. But if a child experiences discomfort, confusion, or inconsistency during infancy, they are more likely to develop an insecure or unsuccessful attachment style.

"In Zoya's case, she is very attached to you and feels distressed when you aren't near. We call this type of attachment an anxious-ambivalent attachment. And in layman's terms we would describe this as someone who feels distress when their object of attachment isn't near but they are not entirely satisfied when it is near, either. In adulthood, people with this style of attachment may have fears of abandonment, may have difficulty forming stable relationships, and may possess feelings of anxiety or clinginess in their relationships. They may also crave closeness and intimacy but feel undeserving of it."

Haroun blows out a tense sigh, rubbing his hand over his face.

"The reason I'm telling you all this is because I want you to understand that Zoya's love towards you stems from a style of attachment she cannot necessarily control. She grew up with a father who constantly neglected her because Zoya's very existence reminded him of his wife's death."

At this, Haroun's brow furrows in confusion.

"Zoya's mother passed away giving birth to her. And the way this affected Zoya's childhood was that she was raised by a father who tried but failed to love his daughter. Because she constantly reminded him of the wife he lost."

Haroun runs a hand through his hair. He had always assumed Zoya's mother had died when Zoya was a child. He hadn't realized there was so much more to it. God, how much does he not know about his wife?

Appalled, he glances at Ms. Fray for a moment. How do these therapists do it? In the span of a few days, the woman has managed to unearth everything about Zoya's past and understand it in its entirety.

"The reason I am sharing this with you is because I need you to understand the depth of the situation." Ms. Fray smiles. "The good thing, Mr. Suleiman, is that she is here. When we are physically sick, we go to the doctor, but when we are mentally afflicted, it's equally important to seek professional help."

At this point, Haroun remembers something Zoya had said to him when he encouraged her to go to therapy. "Imagine what people would say? The CEO of one of the largest businesses in the fashion industry is mentally afflicted. And that's a nice way to say it, otherwise the press would not be that nice. I've already gotten enough allegations and labels on me — drama queen, divorcée, now domestic abuse victim — I'd much rather do without anything else stamped to my forehead."

He breaks out of his thoughts when Ms. Fray says, "Sir? Are you okay?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm sorry."

"That's alright." Ms. Fray pauses for a beat, and Haroun wonders whether she is psychoanalyzing him. "I was saying that luckily, the human brain is very capable of change. Since Zoya has been coming here, we've been able to identify a lot of issues. And knowing these will help her challenge her insecurities, develop a more secure attachment style, and maintain stability in her relationships."

Haroun nods shakily. "Okay."

"Do you have any questions for me, sir?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do." The two of them converse for a couple of minutes before Ms. Fray gives him a referral for an exposure therapy expert.

When Haroun leaves the office, the therapist's words and advice are brimming through his mind. The more he finds out about Zoya, the more he wonders how she has managed to present herself as put together for so long. Anyone in her place would have cracked and shattered, but she has remained erect. Whole. Even though he knows her facade is all for the cameras.

But what happens behind the scenes?

Nobody ever knows.

. . .