V

He looked up from drawing a picture on a little notepad. A few strokes of pencil that continue to haunt me.

“Is this as bad as you get?” Dr. Counselor asked at our last meeting as I wept continuously over little, white and fluffy.

“What?” I sniffled and reached for another tissue and squinted at the V he’d drawn.

“Let’s say this is you. Are you at the deepest part of the hole? Right now?”

I immediately flashed to a picture of myself curled under a towel on my bathroom floor in the middle of the night, winced and shook my head firmly.

“No.” I offered decisively. “I’ve been much worse than this.”

“OK.” He accepted that easily since I seemed so sure. “So let’s say this is you.” He pointed to a point a meager way up the right side of the V (Please see NowModel). I frowned, disappointed in his assessment of my progress. “You’re out of the worst part of the hole.” I nodded, met his gaze. “The question is, do you want to go back down there or do you want to keep climbing out?”

“I don’t like it down there.” I said quickly. “I want to keep climbing out.” Then I stared at the V, a bit fearful, feeling sick at the thought of going back to that scary place. The more I stared at that bottom point, the more awful it seemed. Sharp, consuming, small and filled with suffocating pain. I almost drowned in it. So when he pointed at the uppermost point on the right side - Eventually, he smiled encouragingly.

“Some day you’ll be here.” He assured, and I shook my head at him, near panic, and he frowned.

“You don’t want to be there.” He guessed because I wasn’t saying anything – just sitting in the chair, legs crossed, arms folded protectively around myself until I had to wipe my eyes with another tissue. Then he offered me his pencil. “What’s wrong with there? Can you fix it?”

“I don’t know how..." I paused, thought for a moment. “I don’t know who I’ll be when I’m there.” I said. Pointing with the pencil to the Eventually point and watching it tremble in my hand.

“When I was here,” I said, getting hysterical as I pointed to the top left point looking so high and far in the past, “I was a good person, but painfully naïve. I read romance novels, for goodness sake! Really believed that the world was benevolent and that people who deserved love would eventually find it! I will not be that naïve again! After my defense? When my world fell apart then? One of my committee members said I was smart, capable, good at what I did – but painfully naïve. But I decided he was an ass, so I stayed the same. But look at me now! Being naïve leaves me in the hole! I can’t go back to the hole!” Then I stopped, realizing I had started to sob sometime in my tirade. Shocked, I realized I was leaning angrily over the little sheet of paper, pointing with my pencil, both feet on the floor, both hands placed on the desk.

I leaned back in my chair, blinked at him, and placed the pencil gently by the paper. “I’m sorry.” I whispered.

“No,” he corrected. “You’re angry.”

I nodded, looked down and focused on breathing for a moment. I’m deeply uncomfortable with crying in front of people. I do that in private. So my copious tears were vaguely awkward to me, but sobbing? I don’t do that. So I stepped back, gulped back the pain, and settled myself a bit. I acknowledge now - and did to some extent then as well - that I'm viciously angry that I had to abandon my worldview. That I allowed myself to push too far and give too much - not just at one point, but over and over again over the past years - until I lost something.

“My point,” I continued, because I wanted him to know, “is that part of my being a good person was naively believing that it was the best way to be. That any minor pains were worth the reward of being truly available to love people.”

“Can you repeat that statement now?” He reminded me which one. I was supposed to parrot it back to him, then state how true or false I found it. For this one, I just stared at him. Finally shook my head. He repeated it several times, I blinked back tears and started to disengage. So we moved on.

“It is…” I rolled my eyes and sighed. This was bizarre! I could say whatever I wanted.

“It is…” I tried again and twisted my mouth. Shrugged. He said the phrase again, gently, and waited while I thought for a moment. "I should be able to say it!" I offered, frustrated.

"No 'should'ing." He reminded me. "You could say it. If you want to. It's just an option I think might help."

“It’s better to have…” I broke off again and frustration at myself took over. I’d just pick up where I left off – only a few more words to go. “loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” I finished in a rush. Then, before I had time to censor it, I finished with “Whatever. I don't know that I believe that. I don’t know that I want to.

“Which brings me to the point I was trying to make. I don’t know how to hope for that Eventually point because I don’t know how to be realistic and good any more than I knew how to at the far left point. It’s one or the other. And being naïve is too damn dangerous to do.

"But I don't want to be a bad person. That's not OK. But I can't let someone hurt me that badly again.”

Though he told me we’d work on it, I still don’t know how it’s going to come together for me. But I do have a couple of notes as I went though and made these graphs.

• I can get stuck when focused on local minima or maxima.
  
• The total picture is only available for retrospective analysis, so I’m faced with working with what I know now.
  
• Zooming in on a particular region – even if said data is acquired over years – doesn’t mean I can predict the future.
• “It’s not linear.” –Friend, many times.
• Though I can fit a line to my moods when I look over a large enough range of time, when you get closer, it’s clear that there are days where improvement is constant, then there’s a dip backward.
  
• I wouldn't remember all the nonlinearity without the blog. Even in my head, the healing so far has been slow, but steady. It's good to note that's not the case (see green line of actual data). I've slid backward quite a bit, only to move forward again.
• My V is lopsided.
• The slope downward was steep, though we're zoomed in too far to note my problems in July (which were pretty severe) or my breakdown around the time of my defense the July before.
• Regardless, it will likely always be easier for me to fall than climb. It's OK that the blue model doesn't match the green prediction based on recent data. It'd be lovely if I made huge jumps forward, but I'm content with taking small, comfortable steps.
• The smaller slope will get me to the Eventually point more slowly, but that's OK.
  
• I'm afraid of the Eventually point. I don't know how to picture it. I don't know what I believe. I hope the anger will pass and that I'll start to feel to a greater depth than I'm currently capable of accomplishing. But I'm nervous about it.
• We hate the hole.
• It's very scary and dark in that place.
  
• Once I got out of that place - and I wasn't there for all that long - there's room for laughter and distractions and all sorts of lovely things. Perhaps there's less room than there could be, but there is joy. I look forward to certain days now - to work and friends and Christmas. Church, dates, family - all sorts of stuff.
  
• I'm capable of much more joy than I can currently feel, so it's worth the effort to keep climbing, regardless of the slope I take.

"I can't force you to get better." Dr. Counselor said. "I think I can help you. I know you can do it. But you have to want it more than I do - and I want it a lot. Do you want to get better?"

"Very much." I answered. It's scary and I kept thinking about the V enough to create another blog entry about that session, but I do want to get better. So while I'll say that therapy isn't nearly as terrifying as I thought it would be, it does have moments where I'm vulnerable and afraid.

Since I don't like crying in front of people, being vulnerable and afraid, or thinking about areas of my life that continue to cause pain, it's important to remind myself that I really do want to get better. It confuses me that Dr. Counselor so sincerely wants to help when I don't have that much faith in the good in people lately. I'd like to recapture that - truly believe in good again. So I'm climbing out of my stupid, scary V. We shall see what emerges.

Hop, Yelp

“Sweetheart,” I advised, “you’re going to want to move out of the road. You could get hit by a car.”

I’d seen the little, white, fluffy dog from a distance – wondered briefly if it was a gigantic squirrel – and laughed at myself a bit as I moved toward the crest of a hill. I was walking east – directly into the rising sunlight – and had seen the basic shape of a creature in the middle of the road.

This isn’t unusual in my neighborhood. Just this morning, I saw three dogs running loose and it’s a symphony of barking each and every time Chienne and I embark on a meandering journey through the neighborhood. I live in a giant subdivision of single family homes in the south – we have a lot of dogs here.

Little, white, fluffy dog was a bit different in his firm refusal to move from his spot in the center of the street though. Most dogs – when faced with vehicles that are slowing – will scoot out of the way. The outcome of a tiny dog vs. giant truck battle is pretty predictable, after all. This little guy was eating some garbage out of the street and absolutely refused to budge. Two trucks reached the top of the hill, crept toward the dog, then stopped. I watched little, white and fluffy stare them down until they gently curved their path to avoid him and his garbagey snack.

I approached and offered my sage wisdom to the creature, scolding Chienne for lunging toward the garbage herself. I decided I’d scoot the gross delicacy over to the curb so the dog would at least be out of the way. But as I approached, I couldn’t keep complete control over my large hound and little, white and fluffy began to growl menacingly. If he hadn’t budged for the truck, there was no way in hell a woman and floppy eared animal were taking his snack.

“Chienne, no!” I jerked on her collar and rolled my eyes when she didn’t even glance at me – her laser-like focus was directed on this white canine and whatever he had found to eat. Chienne wanted both of them desperately. As little, white and fluffy bared its teeth, I gagged over whatever it was he was eating, then decided to say screw it.

I didn’t want to touch that grossness, even with my foot. It was gushy and icky and smelled bad. I’m not crazy about little lapdogs. Not that there’s anything wrong with the little, white, fluffy breeds – they’re just not my preferred sort of canine. I’m quite fond of the goofy mutts from the shelter – too big to pick up and tote around, but painfully sweet and smart. As little, white and fluffy crouched in preparation to lunge, teeth bared and impressively mean sounds emanating from its tiny body, I didn’t know what to do. It might bite me if I tried to move the grossness and if I got close enough to the grossness to move it, Chienne would certainly eat some and I would be forced to gag again. Plus, the little dog was mean!

“OK, I’m leaving.” I told little, white and fluffy - a bit irritated. “But you really should be careful.”

Chienne and I had made it maybe 25 yards when a turquoise sports car zipped past us. I waved my arm at the driver, hoping she would at least slow down so I could warn her about little, white and fluffy, but talking on the phone was apparently too distracting to notice me. I had time to brace myself and hope for the best before I heard the thud.

“Oh, no.” I whispered. “No, no, no.” Perhaps sensing my distress, Chienne abandoned the shrub she’d been sniffing and cuddled close to my leg. I lifted my hand – encased in a black, chenille glove – to my mouth and turned to watch little, white and fluffy hop and yelp as it moved out of the road and toward one of the houses.

Hop, yelp, hop, yelp, hop, yelp.

I continued to look up the hill as the turquoise car pulled into the nearest driveway and parked. I couldn’t see the woman get out – I was too far downhill as I stood on the opposite side of the street, some distance away, hand to mouth, dog leaning against my leg.

“I don’t know what to do.” I told Chienne. She tugged me away from the accident so we could continue along our route. Driven by indecision and intense guilt, I followed her and moved away from the injured animal. I felt sick.

Nothing good ever happens on this street! I vowed not to walk this way again – my desire to take different routes to break the boredom of my morning strolls had screwed me over. Now – once again – I felt sick with not doing what might have helped someone out. I’m a bad person, I told myself. A bad, bad person.

Well, selfish at least, I decided as I turned to head south, then made another movement right to return to my house. This strategy of mine – to just take care of what’s mine, to limit the scope of what’s mine and to remove anything unpleasant from my little sphere of ownership – can’t be applied broadly if I am to feel good about the person I’m becoming.

The world is big.

Lately - for months and months, actually, I’ve felt so very small.

Instead of trying to be bigger, I’ve decided to shrink the world. Or at least the world to which I attend.

“Do you remember [name I can’t remember]?” Friend asked this weekend as we drank coffee.

“It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” I said after wrinkling my nose in thought for a moment.

“He was involved with the dirty bomb plot, allegedly.” She informed me. “He’s been imprisoned for years.” She told me how many, but I was already tuning her out. “He can’t see anyone, read The Koran. He has no contact with other people. Even the guards who bring him food wear shields so he can’t see their faces.”

“La, la, la.” Went my brain. “That’s unpleasant. Don’t think about it. It’ll only make you feel badly. Think about something else. La, la, la.”

“Apparently he’s no longer sane.” She said, and I could see the concern and frustration on her face. I spared a moment – remembering when I would care passionately about such issues – then forcibly directed my attention elsewhere. Not my problem. Nothing I can do.

“People are scared.” I think I said. “We know people hate us and want to hurt us. We don’t know what to do. It’s terrible – absolutely inhumane and awful – but I don’t know what the answer is.”

And then I picked up some meager clutter in my kitchen, took out the trash and finished getting ready to go to Cousin’s house. I take care of what’s mine. The prisoner – whose name I don’t even remember – isn’t mine. Thinking about him makes me feel sick and sad. I don’t want to feel that way, so I won’t think about him.

I give money, I soothed myself. To lots of charities! Habitat for Humanity, Easter Seals, March of Dimes. Feed the Children, Leukemia & Lymphoma, Cystic Fibrosis, local food banks, my church, ASPCA. But it’s a few mouse clicks in the online banking system, then I toss away the request letter, never to think of it again.

I’m careless with people lately. I think I’ve subconsciously pushed Friend away a bit. Not a lot, mind you, and not on purpose. But she’s legitimately unhappy about a few things, and I don’t know how to help. Feel badly when I think about her problems. So I don’t think of them. She deserves better - I just don't provide it.

I didn’t respond to an email a week or so ago – not out of any malice. I just didn’t think about it. Had no idea it would matter. But it hurt someone's feelings when she needed support. And knowing I screwed up made me feel small and sad.

But rather than making myself bigger – more generous and attentive – I try to shrink my world so it fits me better. Shameful, I thought. Bad, bad person.

I arrived home from my walk, put a piece of cheese in my purse (to lure the dog if need be), a red blanket in the car and set off toward the crest of that hill. The turquoise car was still parked awkwardly in the yard and the front door was standing open. I assumed someone had cared for little, white and fluffy so I came home. I grabbed a quick shower, curled my hair, put on makeup and dressed for work. I arrived, walked to the office while admiring my pretty black flats with the little bow over the toes and sat at my desk, otherwise feeling very fragile and tiny. After answering a couple of emails, I went to my appointment.

I sat down, Dr. Counselor closed the door and faced me from across his desk. “Have you been good since I last saw you?”

“I saw a dog get hit by a car this morning.” I offered. He cocked his head at me, so I elaborated – talked of how I felt nothing over the paper, did little to help those who needed it, was becoming a bad person.

“I just don’t feel enough.” I whimpered, tossing away my fifth or sixth tissue I’d used since arriving minutes before. In our last two meetings, my tears have been mild. Easily wiped away, a couple of tissues per hour, then away I go. Not this time. “I thought about helping – I knew I should. But then the little dog irritated me, so I wrote it off. Just ignored it and moved on with my walk. I assumed it’d be fine, but I was naïve again! The world is mean! Bad things happen all the time! People lie and I’m heartbroken and then someone offers asinine advice. Someone leaves garbage in the street and the dog eats it and then someone hits him with a car! It’s awful and it hurts and I hate it.”

“Well,” Dr. Counselor offered after a moment, “I don’t think your problem is that you don’t feel enough. You appear to be feeling quite a bit right now.”

I took a break from wiping the continuous stream of tears away and blew my nose. Nodded.

Then we talked as I continued to cry. I’m angry, but I’m told that’s OK. “Be pissed off.” He said. “Then understand that the anger only hurts you. So push it away – as many times as you need to push – and make space for the good feelings.”

I’m scared, but he said that’s OK. It will pass. I won’t be like this forever – I’m not even as bad as I think I am now.

“I see no evidence that you’re a bad person.” He soothed. “It wasn’t your dog – you weren’t responsible for taking care of it. You didn’t put the garbage in the road. You weren’t the one who hit the dog. There were all sorts of people who could have done something differently.”

“But I was there. I knew I should help!” I insisted.

“You tried to help. It didn’t work out. You can’t save every stray animal.”

“I should try to keep the ones I see from getting hit by cars!”

“When you should yourself, you feel guilty. Feeling guilty isn’t so good for you, is it? Does it help you feel more open to helping people? Doing your work and providing support for your friends and family? Being open to feeling happy and useful and hopeful?”

I shook my head. Tossed a tissue in the trash and reached for a clean one.

“I’d like to see you again.” He said much later, as we neared the end of my session. I was gathering my composure but was startled into laughter.

“I bet you would.” I said, smiling and sniffling at the same time. "I’m not exactly the picture of emotional health.”

“Do you want to get better?” He asked, regarding me thoughtfully. Kindly.

“Very much.” I said immediately.

“Then you’re fine. And you will keep improving if that’s what you want.”

I just hope little, white and fluffy can say the same. I really hope that a lot.

Therapy: session 2

“Now you try.” He urged. “Breathe in through your nose.” He paused and waited while I pulled air in, avoiding eye contact with him. “And out through your mouth.” He said, breathing out in an “ahhh.”

I don’t make noise when I breathe. It's a general rule I have unless I’m stuffy or otherwise sick. So I skipped the “ahhh” but felt my tension ease with the breathing exercise. Dr. Counselor nodded approvingly.

“Now,” he said, “put your water down and put your palms on your knees.” With an inquiring and long-suffering look, I placed my water bottle on his desk and rested my hands on my legs. “We’re going to feel all the negative.” He began and I nodded. I had just confessed that I – at some point and without my permission – had become pessimistic. I expect the worst. I’m becoming this sucking hole of darkness and it’s not at all what I want. I used to be bright and happy, and sometimes I find the energy to sparkle a tiny bit, but I’m mostly very gray. Gentle, but gray.

“We’ll raise our hands slowly.” He put actions to words and I followed his example. “All the fear and doubt, all the worry and anxiety. Every thought that you’re not good enough or pretty enough. That there’s not someone out there for you. That you’re not a good enough friend or that people don’t like or approve of you. We’re pushing that away. Giving it to God because He wants to take it from you.”

I blinked back tears, nodding at him as he kept his voice soft and soothing, hands lifted at chest level as we sat across the desk from each other.

“Now,” he continued after pausing a moment, “we’re going to turn our hands over. Think of a flower blooming in those time lapse photos. A pink flower if you’d like, or blue – you like blue, right?”

My tears vanished behind a giggle I choked back. I didn’t bring my dream journal and even if I had, it isn’t blue. I hadn’t been to the gym as he advised and told him I dreaded coming because I hadn’t completed my assignments. He nodded and thought for a moment. Made some decision about me and changed his approach. I like the current one better.

We’d covered my resistance to revising this grant. I’d planned to write a cute little post about how he used an abortion analogy for it. I hate it when grants are babies, and taking it to the abortion vs. offer it nutrients and see the gynecologist more often doesn’t help that aversion at all. I coached myself not to laugh at him when he went through those few moments, drawing out his analogy, offering me options, listening as I spoke.

I was back to that feeling – appreciating his effort, drawn by his sincerity but feeling as if he’d crossed the line into ridiculous and being unable to follow. He must have noticed and spoke to regain my attention.

“We pushed away the negative. It’s gone – doesn’t belong to you anymore. So we’re changing – our hands are facing up.” I looked down to make sure mine were. Met his eyes when I saw I was doing OK.

“Now we’re open to receive what God wants for us. All the peace. Joy. Hope. The knowledge that life works out. People find love – in friendships, romantically, for children – be they delivered by you or adopted or if they have other parents. You’re receiving that love. Laughter.” He continued, but I don’t remember what else I was receiving.

I started to cry. Tried to hold it together, then told myself it was OK to be moved by God. To feel the relief of moving the negative away and being open to the positive moving in. So I let tears fall, reaching for a tissue with my left hand while remaining open – palm stretched outward and face up – with my right.

I wanted a method for being more positive. He offered one. I can visualize myself pushing the darkness up a hill - it's heavy and difficult, but then God takes it away. I'm stronger for having shoved it away and more capable of appreciating the goodness. It's a bit...much, I know, but it worked for me today.

I bounced toward the stairs when leaving. Instead of praying nobody would see me as I exited the building (as I had last time), I smiled at a cute boy on my way out of Dr. Counselor’s office. He smiled back, so I assume my tears had been adequately wiped away.

I return next Monday.

“I’ll see you again.” He said, writing my name in his tiny appointment book. Then we stood at he squeezed my hand. “I really think I can help you.”

“I think you already have.” I said, squeezing back. I appreciated his effort – his gentle guidance, his insistence upon offering options rather than assignments so I don’t feel guilty for not completing something. We talked about dating and the grant. My attitude and church. “Thank you.” I said softly. “Really.”

He put his arm around me squeezed after asking permission. I leaned into him for a second and touched my head to his shoulder.

My therapist likes me, I thought cheerfully as I headed back to the office. He realized it’s important to me that he does. I feel comfortable there – even with the analogies that aren’t great and the notes that contain my fondness for the color blue. I do think he can help right now, and I’m not dreading going back. I drank more water this afternoon and did aerobics for 45 minutes. I got work done and actually started revising my grant.

I feel good.

For today, that’s more than enough. And for tomorrow? I suspect I'll be taking deep breaths and focusing on pushing away the negative and pulling in the positive. So if you see me with my hands stretched in front of me, I'm doing an exercise from therapy.

Let's talk therapy.

“You must be Katie.” He said, rising from his chair and reaching to shake my hand after I tentatively knocked on Dr. Counselor’s door. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.” I said, smiling and offering the appropriate greetings. I sat in the single chair in the small office and twisted my mouth as he too sat and regarded me in silence.

“It’s, um, funny you should ask that.” I spoke again, a bit uncomfortable without chatter. “I went to a new church this Sunday and almost everyone asked if I’d been there before. Maybe I have a common face.”

“What church?” He asked, visibly brightening.

“Presbyterian. First Presbyterian, in [town near where my house is].”

“I’m a Presbyterian!” He said and I couldn’t resist a grin as he told me which church he attends. Apparently their obsession with not appearing rude by accidentally forgetting someone extends to work environments. I wonder if I’ll start asking everyone new if we’ve met before.

It’s tempting to write out everything we discussed – I could provide helpful links for some of it so you could catch the background if you missed it. Other revelations I’ve specifically decided against putting on a blog. There aren’t a great number of facts I keep private – and it’s likely you could deduce what I know if you’ve read long enough and really understand me – but these few pieces of information don't need explicit statement.

Luckily, there are enough moments – between the tissues I took (five) and times I decided I was likely more intelligent than my therapist (I lost track, honestly) – that can safely be recorded.

“What’s your favorite color?” He asked at one point.

“What?” I said, cocking my head and offering him a frown.

“What color do you like? What color makes you happy?”

I increased the severity of my frown to indicate my disapproval. I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but I wasn’t impressed.

We stared at each other for a moment, my frown as constant as his expectant expression.

“What?” I finally offered again.

“Your favorite color.” He insisted.

“I don’t know.” I said, shaking my head. “I like blue, I guess.”

“What other colors?” He asked.

“Gray, maybe.” I said after sighing. “Do you have a point here?”

“Do you keep a journal?” He asked and I visibly brightened. Finally! Something I was doing right!

“Yes.” I nodded firmly. “I write something every day.”

“How?” He probed. “Written out?”

“No.” I shook my head and sighed again. I fail to see how that would be important. “I use my laptop.”

“I’d like you to buy a notebook. A blue notebook since that’s your favorite color.” (I’m back to frowning and sighing at this point. Because, honestly, what the hell?) “Then I’d like you to write in it every day. Doodle. Draw pictures.”

I stifled a laugh, largely unsuccessfully. He looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I shrugged.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t see that happening.”

Then he looked surprised. “Why not?”

“I’m happy with the way I journal now. I don’t write many things longhand – it’s too time consuming. And I’m not sure how I’d feel going over it with you – it’d be awkward watching someone read what I wrote.” (I briefly considered how it was normal to let many strangers read, then dismissed the thought. I wanted to battle the blue journal – of that, I was certain. Even at the risk of failing therapy.)

“I want you to try it.” He insisted. “Buy a blue notebook then write in it. Keep track of your dreams. Do you keep track of your dreams?”

“Sometimes.” I said, trying to think of any I’ve written here. I really should put the archived posts into categories, I mused. Then I focused again to sigh at his continued prodding.

“Keep track of your dreams. In a blue notebook. And doodle. Draw pictures that describe your hopes and fears and concerns.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ve used this tool with someone else and it’s so revealing! We’ve learned so much by going through it. You’ll be amazed.”

“I’ll think about it.” I said, then shrugged as he looked concerned. “It really doesn’t sound like something that will work for me. But I’ll think about it.”

I wasn’t always so uncooperative – that was by far the tensest moment. But I don’t want to buy the blue journal! Or write down my dreams. “I don’t doodle. Or draw. Ever.” I said when he brought it up again. His insistence is making me more resistant, I think.

But, really? A notebook in my favorite color? For drawing pictures? It’s just not me.

“You want the wine before you pick the grapes!” He said once after I pounced on one of his statements ("Yes!" I said. "How do I do that?"), and I nodded.

“I am impatient.” I said. “I know.”

“I use a lot of metaphors.” He said, ducking his head and smiling. “But you can’t have a good vintage wine without patience. We'll work toward fixing that problem, but it will take some time.”

And I sighed, but didn’t frown. His intentions are good even if his metaphors could use some work.

“I’d like to see you next week.” He noted as our time started to run short. And I nodded – of course he would. He’d figured out a great many of my problems. I’d talked freely, cried a bit, argued a minimal amount. I’m easy to work with and simple to understand. “Would you like to see me again?” He asked.

“I… don’t know.” I said and watched his face fall. “I just don’t know that I’m willing to do this every week. Come here and cry. But I do need to make progress. I know that.” And I rolled my eyes and blinked back more tears. Reaching for another tissue – he put them on the corner of the desk closest to me – I sniffled and shrugged.

“Tears don’t just clean dirt from your eyes. They clean pain from your soul.” Which effectively stopped my tears so I could sigh again. Then I felt a twinge of guilt as he continued. “I understand this is hard.” He said gently. “If you want to see a woman or someone else, I can make those arrangements. But I think I can help you. I think we can work together and make some things better. I care about you – I want you to be happier and healthier. I don’t mind the tears.”

“OK.” I said softly. “I’ll come back. I really will try, but it might be frustrating. For both of us.”

So I’ll see him next week – it’s on both of our calendars. He did offer some help. I did feel comfortable. I think he’ll force some accountability on some issues that have been too long neglected. I’m a mess right now, so I think anyone could initiate some improvements. When I start to do better, we’ll reevaluate. I’m not going to continue if I feel uncomfortable – if I dread seeing him, I’m done.

“It was nice to meet you. Thank you for seeing me.” I said, shaking his hand as I walked out of his door.

“Joy.” He said, and I frowned, not really understanding.

Perhaps eventually I’ll get it.