fifty-nine
Two monthslater
I’m sitting cross-legged in my therapist’s office toward the end of our weekly session. Starting therapy was a big step for me. My mom always preached, “If you need someone to talk to, you can talk to me,” reiterating how ridiculous it was to pay someone to listen to you discuss your problems. God, she was so wrong.
Talking to my mom never fixed any of my problems and often made them worse because many of my deep-rooted issues stem from how she treats me. It’s why one of the first steps I took after ending my relationship with Jake was to seek out an unbiased third party to help me navigate this phase of my life.
It’s been so fucking hard. Sometimes, I spend the entire session crying and come out emotionally drained, unable to form a complete thought.
But it’s been worth it. I’m learning how to trust the process and myself.
“How did the holiday conversation with your mom go?” my therapist, Rose, asks, tapping her pen softly against a yellow legal pad. She’s in her late fifties with short silvery hair andimpeccable style, a clone of Miranda Priestly inThe Devil Wears Prada, minus the bitchy attitude.
“She doesn’t love that I’m spending Thanksgiving with Chelsi and her parents, even though I agreed to spend three days with her at Christmas,” I answer calmly. “She pushed back as usual, but eventually recognized I wasn’t going to cave. I don’t think she’ll ever stop challenging my decisions.”
“You may be right. How does that make you feel?”
“Indifferent. Her opinion holds no weight for me anymore. As for her behavior changing… I’m not holding my breath. I’ve come to accept who she is. Nothing I can do will change it, so I refuse to let it consume my thoughts.”
“That’s good to hear. Anything else you want to touch on before we end for today?” Her eyebrows arch, and I know she’s probing to see whether I’m ready to talk about Jake. She’s already heard all the ins and outs of what happened in one of our first sessions, when I cried so much that I ran out of tears.
“Not yet. I need to focus on myself before I can digest what drove me to end things with Jake,” I reply, holding her gaze. “I’m not avoiding it. I just don’t want this part of my life and healing to be about a man. I want it to be about me. WhatIneed. WhoIam. WhoIwant to be.”
She nods, bringing a finger to her lip in silent approval.
Every therapy session brings me one step closer to healing. I’m doing the work and starting to figure out the puzzle that is my life. Today was one of the few sessions when I didn’t spend a significant amount of time sobbing, which gets far fewer looks of concern as I walk the few blocks to my condo in the crisp autumn air. There’s something about late fall in the city. The weather is cool enough that you don’t break a sweat, no matter how far you walk, but not cold enough to make you freeze. Holiday decorations are slowly being put up throughout downtown, andthe mood has a jolly feel, unlike the melancholy the winter months bring.
I pick up my pace as a blast of cold lake air hits my face. Our condo has started to feel more like a sanctuary again, unburdened by memories. Lounging on the couch, drinking wine, and eating a combination of carbs and cheese with Chelsi is one of my favorite ways to spend my free time.
My career is going better than I could’ve expected. Everyone has noticed I’m a different person, more confident and creative than before. What I’m most proud of is the boundaries I’ve set at work, gradually curbing my workaholic ways. One of the many topics that came up in therapy. I never thought of myself in that manner until my therapist pointed it out. Once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it and made changes. It’s a balance I haven’t fully mastered, but I make progress every week.
As I climb the stairs, I realize I’ve been walking for blocks with a huge grin. I’m happy with where my life is headed. It’s not perfect. Far from it. But it’s exactly what I want. I don’t need to have it all figured out.
One of the best things about life is dealing with the unexpected. Embracing the chaos. All things I hated at the beginning of the year. Now, the unknownexcitesme. Spreadsheets will always have a special place in my heart, but sometimes it’s better to throw caution to the wind.
sixty
Two monthslater
“Kate, hurry up. The show is about to start,” Chelsi shouts, her legs tucked underneath her on our couch. She’s ultra comfortable, in a pair of sweats, her hair in a bun, and her eyes glued to the awards show on TV. She lives for the glitz and glamour of the red carpet, listening to winners’ speeches, and watching the carefully choreographed musical numbers. Meanwhile, I’m forcing myself to be in the room, because she’s my best friend, when I’d rather be anywhere else.
“I’ll be in there in a minute,” I call out, taking my time cleaning up from dinner and pouring myself another glass of wine. I’m not in the mood to sit through three hours of musicians patting themselves on the back.
“You’re missing it,” she remarks, a dark, mellow blast of country music comes from the TV, followed by the croon of a familiar raspy voice.
“It’s fine. Don’t need to see it,” I retort, wiping down the counter a second time. Prepared to do it a third or fourth time to avoid watching this drivel.
“Kate…you need to get in here. I’m serious,” she says, alarmed. I roll my eyes and take a swig of my wine. Chelsi’s known to have a flair for the dramatic, so I can only imagine what type of fashion emergency she’s insisting I see. “Holy shit, Kate. Hurry up!”
My eyes go wide as soon as I seemy faceon the TV. I try to comprehend what I’m seeing on screen. The combination of the sound and images makes my heart race and my breathing erratic. It doesn’t make sense.
When the next image appears, my hand flies to my mouth, and the wine glass falls to the floor and shatters. It feels like someone is sitting on my chest.
Time slows.
My eyes fix on the screen.
On the words coming out of his mouth.
