When I imagine counselling, I revert to the stereotypes; an old, bearded man with glasses perched on the end of his nose nodding at everything I say with an expressionless face, a leather chaise-longue and extended stretches of silence which I am expected to break.

My pigeonholing daydream is broken by a woman coming out of an office separated from the waiting room by a heavy wooden door with a patterned, stained glass window. She is roughly the same age as me – early thirties – wearing a knee length floral dress and a pair of shiny court shoes.

‘Would you like to come through?’ she asks.

I nod and enter the office. The light blue walls are mostly bare, with one large photograph of a beautiful stretch of empty beach meeting calm, blue sea hanging on the far wall beside a large window. Her desk is uncluttered, a notepad and a small digital clock the only objects on it.

She motions to a vacant, white and green striped chair with plump cushions, into which I duly sink. She sits in an identical chair opposite me, though it is slightly tilted away from mine so as not to enforce unwanted eye contact.

‘My name is Doctor Vaughn, though I prefer to be called Amy. I am here to help you in any way I can. Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here and what you would like to get out of these sessions,’ she says.

‘I’m here because my boss made me come,’ I say, haughtily, despite liking Amy from the outset.

‘And why did your boss make you?’ she replies in the same measured tone as her introduction.

I sigh. I’ve not talked about what happened in the warehouse with anyone I know. It has remained a secret which I’ve kept locked away for fear of not coping. For fear of people thinking that I’m weak.

Over the course of the next hour, the floodgates open and I expose myself to Amy in an unparalleled way. I disclose all my anxieties, I touch on what happened after the man emerged from the shadows in the warehouse and I confide in her my fears for the future; my anguish about the almost impossible chance of becoming a mother.

Once I finish, I feel lighter, like a massive weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I thank Amy for her time and we shake hands, arranging an appointment for the forthcoming week.

Entering the brisk evening air, I feel a rare sense of freedom I’ve not experienced since before the attack. Even though it’s only the start of the process, I can sense a retreat of the dark thoughts that have clouded my mind for the past ten months.

I take my phone from my pocket and turn it on, plugging my headphones in and selecting a Bon Iver album to keep me company on my walk home. I shove it back in my pocket and begin the short walk. The time passes quickly, my thoughts on the case and the homeless man and before I know it, I’m on my driveway.