You would think it would have occurred to me before today that, having been in therapy for almost 14 months, it would be around the time when the digging gets deep. But you would be wrong. I’ve been working with the terribly misguided notion that my time with The Therapist was drawing to a close. Silly me. As the song says, we’ve only just begun.
After a heart-wrenching session that left me addled by my own mind for most of the day, J. and I went to a meeting, and then I quite nearly assaulted a drunk guy on Damen Avenue who had the audacity — the audacity! — to almost wobble into me (I really thought I was going to have to beat the crap out of him when he did a double take and tried to start something with us after I made a snide comment), and I think J. really might have thought I was going to lose my mind.
[Though he did say, later, that he sees now that he doesn’t have to walk me home anymore, as I can clearly take care of myself… but I digress.]
I ended up letting J. cook me dinner — salad, asparagus, baked potatoes — before I launched into an exposition of all the things stewing in my head, an act which culminated in me crying at his dining room table. But it was a good, good thing — we were both more vulnerable than usual, and I think he could really see the things with which I’m struggling, and of course since I am reluctant to share any weakness with anyone, this was a first. And even more of a first? He was compassionate and kind rather than telling me I was an idiot for feeling the way I do. Tonight, I feel just a little bit safer with him. However, I still wish fairies would come in and clean my house and do the dishes. That would be a real relief. I suppose I’ll have to do with a kick-ass boyfriend in the meantime. Namaste.