She smiles but I can tell she’s not convinced. She studies me for a beat, and turns her gaze to our feet. “So… about those shoes. You like them?”
I have no choice but to buy them now. “I do,” I tell her. “I’ll take them.”
Her face lights up. “Great! And about those other items you left at the front?”
“Yes, I’ll try those too… see what fits.”
Following a quick five minutes in the change room and payment, I leave with a leather skirt, a pretty white blouse, and a pair of fabulous heels.
I should have a smile on my face, but instead a heavy weight sits uncomfortably at the pit of my stomach.
What else does Renee know about me?
I’m wearingmy best yoga pants, the patterned ones that make my butt look curvier, paired with a pink tank top. I stretch as I wait for the class to begin, as I wait for Joel to make his usual appearance. My heart is beating with anticipation as I watch the usual suspects filing in, yoga mat bags hanging over shoulders. There’s Erika, a sweet tiny older lady with a thick European accent. I’ve been meaning to ask her where she’s from, but haven’t had a chance to. There are the identical twins… about my age. And the young lean girl whose tiny waist can’t be bigger than twenty-two inches.
My breath shallows as I wait impatiently for him. Anxiety slowly rears its ugly head — I know all the signs; an intense feeling of confusion and discomfort, the sensation of being smack in the middle of chaos and not being able to free myself. Why is he not here?
When the class begins, I mimic Juliette’s motions. She always starts the class with graceful Tai Chi stretches, moves I’m quite familiar with. I attempt to talk some sense into myself — it’s okay if he’s not here. He never told me he’d be. I just assumed. This is not a personal affront. Perhaps he has an emergency or was not feeling well.
What if he’s been in an accident? My pulse accelerates as we move to sun salutations. What if he’s avoiding me? Maybe he thinks this thing between us is getting too serious. Perhaps he’s ghosting me. My pulse races even faster at that thought. I shake my head as I move into downward dog. I’m being crazy again. These silly thoughts are a result of my OCD, of my neuroses. They are not rooted in reality at all. I’m overacting again. I focus on the class as we step into strength exercises. The rest of the session goes relatively well as I make a conscious effort to focus. When meditation whirls around at the end of the class, my breathing is relatively normal, and my thoughts have calmed significantly.
Unfortunately, as soon as I leave the studio, my neurotic thoughts catch up with me again, and disappointment and worry morphs into anger. How dare he stand me up. But he didn’t really stand me up, did he? He’s never said that he’d be there for every single class — I just assumed, I just hoped.
As I walk back home, I do everything my doctors have taught me. I drag myself out of my own body, and assess the situation as if I were an unbiased spectator. Yes, I’m definitely acting crazy, and this little crush has gone way too far. I need to rein it in. Now. But how can I do that?
The answer is simple: stop going to the classes, cut all contact. Much easier said than done. For someone normal, it could be done. For someone obsessive and compulsive like myself, it’s next to impossible. And I’m afraid that no amount of drugs or therapy can help me.
I already know that I will keep seeking him out, despite the fact that I know it’s wrong, and that I feel guilty about it, not to mention foolish. I just need to focus on my thoughts. As soon as any kind of romantic notion enters my head, I must squash it and remind myself that I’m happily married, and so is he.
But are we? I’ve just discovered that my husband cheated on me years ago, and has been hiding an enormous secret ever since. Has Renee been hiding the same secret? How long have Renee and Joel been together? She probably came into the relationship with little Ava. And there’s the mysterious silver fox at her work — there’s something there. I just know it. I must know more.
This desperate need for knowledge only feeds my obsession. Not only am I insanely attracted to Joel, but he also holds answers I desperately need. There’s no way I’m saying goodbye yet.
When I get home,I throw myself into my family. If they only knew what has been fuzzing my brain lately, they’d all be appalled. They don’t deserve this. They deserve a wife and mother who is present for them, physically and emotionally. I need to get my shit together. If not for me… for them.
I make a family favorite; ham and macaroni and cheese, fresh bread straight from the breadmaker. It’s amazing how I can still function so effectively despite the fact that my head is a complete mess. From the outside, I really do seem like I have my life together; the perfect mother, wife and friend. But I’m anything but. I’m a total fraud, if truth be told. I’m crazier than people realize.
The boys and I cuddle up toSurvivorwith our lollipops, but I can’t quite focus. I can’t stop thinking about Joel. I’m shocked by how much his absence today affected me. That’s how I know I’ve gone off the deep end, and that it’s time to step back. The problem is… I won’t be able to step back until I have all the answers I need.
* * *
My next appointmentwith Dr. Russell comes just in the nick of time. I’m jittery as I wait. I’ve brought my Kindle, and when I skim over the same paragraph about three times, I decide to abandon the book I’m reading. I flip through the psychology magazines on the coffee table, but none of the articles grab my interest. I stare at the plants in the corner and the art on the walls; soothing paintings of nature. I read the framed inspirational message.
We Are All Broken. That’s How the Light Gets In.
Finally, Dr. Russell opens her office door, and a mother and son walk out. The mother thanks her as the boy stares down at the floor. I avoid eye contact and turn my gaze away.
“All ready for you, Mischa,” Dr. Russell cheers. I eagerly bounce off my chair and practically sprint into her office — I have so much to share. I desperately need her advice. Although I know I’m probably not going to take it.
Dr Russell starts with her usual, “How have you been, Mischa?” When a friend or acquaintance asks that question, they usually aren't looking for a sob story or every detail of your day. They are just being polite and are hoping for a “Good. How are you?” But Eva wants the sob story, all the details. She wants me to pour my heart out. That’s her job. And the more transparent I am with her, the more effective our therapy is. In fact, it had been so successful as of late, we’ve talked about switching our sessions to once a month. Then I discovered Ava’s photo, and I was back at square one, and all Dr. Russell’s good work was thrown out the window.
“I’ve been a mess,” I admit. “‘I’ve been bad.”
She raises a brow and eyes me curiously. “How so?”
I bite my bottom lip like a petulant child sitting at the principal’s office. “I’m sorry, Eva… I didn’t listen to you.”
A whisper of a smile traces her lips. “You never do. It’s expected. It’s all part of your psychology. What I asked of you was nearly impossible.”
