Too broken.
“What are you saying?” His tone of voice drives me insane. I want him to yell at me so I can storm out and—give up.
And there it is, the root of the anger. “It’s more like I’m wondering if I should continue, knowing that more issues will pop up and it might take years to get better. Wouldn’t it be best if I just break up with them and continue my life as it is?”
He nods. “What if?” he asks. “Can you play that scenario in your head?”
“It’s easy to see them together, smiling with a bunch of children—” I smile, thinking of a little girl who’ll look just like Thea and a boy or two that’ll be the exact replica of Matt.
And my chest hurts because I’m not there, and I’m missing the joy of being part of that family. I want to grow old with them, have that dozen children Matt hints we should have in a big house we can build right on the lots he bought.
Us, loving each other and our children… “But they don’t need the aggravation,” I claim.
“Is that what they’ve told you?”
“No, they—”
“It’s your choice, your life, your future,” the therapist says. “As I told you from the beginning, this is similar to playing your own adventure. I can sit down and listen to you for an hour and guide you, but I can’t make decisions for you. Just as you can’t make them for your loved ones either. The three of you have to trace your future, not just one of you.”
And this is it, the crossroad. The moment when I either take a left and continue digging, or a right and bury everything I’ve found so far and live in denial. Coincidentally, the alarm beeps. The session is over.
“Do you want to schedule an appointment for next week?”
“Yes, if you can email me the list of providers for EMDR therapy, I’d appreciate it.”
He nods once, scribbling something on the pad. “Of course.”
After I leave my therapist’s office, I text Thea.
Coop: What are you up to?
Thea: I’m about to go to lunch.
Coop: Can I pick you up?
Thea: Yes, just remember I only have an hour.
“Are you okay?” she asks as I help her climb into the SUV.
I brush her lips with mine. “Let’s get out of here, then we can talk.”
Once I pull the car out of the parking spot, Itell her what happened during my therapy session. “I’m sorry I didn’t defend you while my parents were being…”
“Assholes?” she finishes for me.
“Yes. I was—”
“I had the feeling about it, but I wasn’t sure. We should’ve handled things differently, but it’s hard when you keep us in the dark.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“For?”
I usually say my behavior, but it dawns on me that what happened during my parents’ visit isn’t exactly my fault. It’s keeping all these secrets from them. If they don’t know what’s happening to me, they can’t help me. If I keep denying them, I can’t get better either. I’m dooming this relationship.
“Not trusting you,” I say, finally finding the right answer. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I don’t want you to see me as weak.”
“But you’re not. You’re brave, and even when you think you’re giving up, I see you fighting for what you believe. Leaving Connecticut wasn’t about giving up or running away. It was about leaving a toxic place and starting again.”