Back in the chair

Ahhh, that luxurious half hour of peace following therapy.

You walk out of the office 100 pounds lighter than when you went in. You can hardly feel your baggage. Instead, you’re carrying an overwhelming sense that everything will be okay because, after all, you’re in therapy and that’s what therapy does: it makes things okay.

Not every exit from the office can be brimming with peace and joy and little blue birds swooping with happy songs in and out of trees. If you’re in the chair because of a drama or trauma, you can leave feeling more like the parts of road kill still stuck to the tires. But as of last Wednesday, my third time back in the chair after a two year break, I definitely heard the blue birds, and felt mighty fine.

And also self-congratulatory for going while I’m not in a crisis. I have some fine tuning to do, not heavy lifting. I give myself extra kudos for that

A dark and exquisitely sordid past

I competed in that heavy lifting test of endurance three years ago, almost to the month. I had started going (again, to my fifth therapist) because my emotionally unavailable boyfriend was pulling away from me, and it was so clearly my fault. I knew he was a hurting puppy/lost soul/dark-and-broody type who didn’t like to talk emotion or about much else for that matter, but that’s what I was there for. To fix him. To save him.

When I saw that I couldn’t, and also that every one of his “friends” was a woman who happened to be in love with him, I turned into Psychogirl — a needy, clingy, demanding, jealous bundle of joy. I loved him desperately but hated who I was turning into, and it felt eerily like the last time I was so intensely in love. I knew I had to get back in the chair and sort things out.

Sadly, by “sorting,” I meant to somehow “fix myself” to be more patient, kind, and loving with that insufferable fuckwit. Dumping him was not an option: I had to turn myself into something more lovable, so he would marry me, dammit. (This situation has always reminded me of the joke about the crappy restaurant that serves crappy food, and the portions are too small!)

Snowshoeing: mild pass-time, or xtreme danger?

Today The Mister is in the mountains, snowshoeing. I am concentrating on the fact that he will most certainly come back alive.

To distract myself, I watched Silkwood, an ’80’s flick, starring Meryl Streep and Kurt Russell.

The movie had a scene where Meryl had just had a lovely evening with Kurt, and he was showing her out the next day. He looked all lovey-dovey at her while she asked him to do some chores before she returned that night. She said something goofy, they both laughed, she waved good bye, got into her car, and drove off.

I thought, this scene smacks of foreshadow. She’ll get into a car accident and die. Cutting away from the car wreckage, they’re going to replay this scene, only it will be in slow motion, with sappy music.

And that’s exactly what they did.

And that’s why it’s Hollywood’s fault I always think The Mister is going to unwittingly snowshoe himself off a cliff–because each time we have a tender moment, I think about how heart wrenching it would be to rewatch it in slow motion to a bittersweet soundtrack.

This charming quirk of mine takes many forms. He likes to travel, and I’m convinced his plane will crash every time. He loves to camp, and I’ve imagined him getting struck by lightening. The first time I said “I love you” was the night before he was going to foray into the woods, and I was traveling overseas to visit a friend. I had to say it then or never, because it was so obvious that if I managed to survive my plane ride, he would most certainly be eaten by bears.

I like to think of this irrational fear as the last bit of housekeeping I should tend to before I procreate. I can imagine it translating into a desperate need to keep my child safe, at the expense of not letting him do outrageous things like ride a bike, go to school, or eat peanuts.