I start doodling their faces. Amateur level of course, I’m no Picasso or Cindy Ras.
Kate with her bouncy curls and cheek dimples, Malcolm with his pristine beard and scowl, Emma and her sleek ponytail, art brush behind her ear, and Benny . . . his dark, kind eyes, and joyful smile. I draw and erase his hair a million different times—giving up because it's impossible to recreate the soft curl on the edge. I draw a backwards cap and my insides melt.
A direct message pops up on my screen from BDivata.
Smiling, I exit the messenger and play the moviePrincess Bridein my head. Scrolling through the rest of my emails, I finally land on Liam’s—hesitancy prickling at my fingertips as I open it.
The hesitation is gone quicker than it came as I delete the email. Why would he want to talk to me? Hasn’t he done enough to me? I uprooted my life because of him and he has the audacity to reach out to me? He of all people should know the kind of trigger he can be to someone’s mental state after what he pulled. The hot, boiling rage is back as I slam my laptop.
I feel my thoughts spiraling and suppress the urge to frisbee throw my laptop across the loft. I only have the margin to buy one new electronic device today.
I work through the exercises I have with clients.
I already identified the emotion I’m feeling: burning fury.
I know what made me feel this way: Liam’s email.
And I know my response: not responding.
The questions that hover in my mind over his email are pushed to the back and locked up. I recite to myself,nothing good comes from overthinking,out loud. I use this phrase with my clients when they demand answers, whether it be from a partner or an assailant, or just their own minds. When we are emotionally taxed and going down a path of toxic thoughts, nothing good comes when we overthink every aspect. Why does a partner want to confront a situation? Why does the assailant want to seek retribution? Why is our brain questioning our ability to handle the situation? It’s easiest to spiral down with negative assumptions—the partner wants to validate themselves, the assailant feels no remorse and wants you to know it—your spiraling brain doesn’t always operate in favor of your benefit. The hope we have for resolution, in any scenario, is thwarted by our own thoughts. Overthinking kills hope.
Overthinking and refusing to hone in on what I could do to let it go, I crumple up my doodles and leave.
My anger was so pent up and I felt like a hawk, refusing to release it from my talons as I swirled in the sky looking down at my future. Just holding on tight to what is hindering me from looking forward to the what if’s. Good or bad, I don’t know what is ahead of me, and I’m not allowing myself to be open-handed with the possibilities. I know this, yet I’m still refusing to justtryand work through my anger—like a temperamental child. I am no better than my nephew-minions when they get told they can’t jump out of a moving vehicle.
I also haven’t found a therapist locally, yet. That would probably help but I may as well keep on with my self-sabotaging,right?
On the way back from the phone store, I power up my phone and a slew of messages come through. Multiple from Emma, a couple from Kate, and then Benny. Ignoring the gals’ texts, I open Benny’s immediately.
The thread is welcomed with a funny meme with Inigo Montoya, another with Westley, a picture of Frankie napping, a picture of Frankie stretching, and then, my favorite of all, a selfie of himself with Frankie peeking behind his shoulder. There’s no way I can hide the smile that’s plastered on my face. I set the last picture as his contact photo, then tell him how good Frankie looks in the sunlight—resting on his shoulder like he's her personal human perch.
He texts back immediately and the giddy feeling it gives me is borderline gross. I think about my students and the recent scenarios I've had to endure in our sessions.Does he like me? Does he like me not? Why would they do this if they felt this?On and on and on. It's maddening at times.
But now . . . those questions are circling my own brain as I text Benny. I am hyper-focused on each punctuation, response time, even the tone of a text. The tone. As if I can fully interpret each minuet detail within the little words on my screen. My responses are just as bad. Overthinking each word or phrase.Am I being funny? Flirty? Annoying?
I don't even know anymore. But I do know for sure one thing I'm being . . . a hypocrite.
No . . . worse.
I'm being a teenager.God, help me.
A very, tiny part of me is being rational, questioning why I am allowing this to continue. But that teeny part is shoved out of the way by the large, pulsing part of my brain that likes this guy.
We text back and forth throughout the day, sharing memes, gifs, and being flat out flirtatious. I just have to call it what it is, Benny has been flirting with me and I have been more than reciprocating. It feels easy and natural to be on this level with him, and I have a strong gut feeling that he isn’t this way with just anyone. I mean, Kate made it apparent that the man is practically a monk with how rarely he dates. Even Sarah Kim was telling me he’s been single for “like a century,” although it’s hard to imagine why.
I have my phone attached to my hip until it’s time for dinner with our mystery hit-and-run guest. Instead of helping set the table, I am leaning against it, giggling at my phone. Again, like a child.
Meanwhile, Emma is rushing around the kitchen like her life depends on it when she snaps at me, “Either help or get out of my kitchen!”
Startled and terrified, I shove my phone in my pocket and begin setting the table. “I’m sorry! What else can I do?”
“Go get dressed.”
Looking down at my high waisted black jeans and oversized Halloweentown t-shirt I’ve tucked in I say, “I am dressed. Do you not like it?”
“Trust me, you’ll want to freshen up,” she says as she pulls a dish out of the oven.
“I don’t think I need to impress this mystery hit-and-run driver, but thanks.”
