After hearing how I’m too angry and difficult for most of my life, it’s validating to hear someone say that it’s ok to have these feelings. Not only is it ok, she’s encouraging me to feel it, recognize it, and then deal with it productively. Part of me regrets not doing the work much sooner, when Jack and Bev got me into classes as a teenager. Maybe it could have saved me a world of trouble. I’m not sure I was in the right mental place for it though, and I have to focus on the fact that I’m here now and willing to do better.
We chat for another half an hour or so, going over visualization exercises, and getting into why I have the triggers that I do. I tell her the story in a steady voice, and she listens objectively without giving me sympathetic platitudes.
“You’ve endured trauma, so your trigger is a trauma response. That’s a scar that won’t easily heal. However, if you keep talking about it, and working through it, it’ll hopefully fade into something you won’t notice anymore,” she tells me when the story is over. Of course she’s right, because she’s Phyllis.
I feel wrung out when we’re done, which means I blast some angsty indie music on the way home. Gage is home tonight to plan his dad’s retirement party while Diana runs the bar, so I’m eager to get home to him and the birds.
After getting a chorus of greetings from the birds intheir aviaries, I find Gage in his office. He’s got those glasses on that make me stupidly weak at the knees. His hair is rumpled like he’s been running his hands through it, and his silver chain peaks out from underneath the soft grey henley he’s wearing. That gorgeous face of his breaks into a dimple revealing smile when he sees me.
“Hey, how was the session with Phyllis?”
“Speaking with her one on one was much tougher than the group sessions, but it was brutal in a good way. It helped,” I admit.
“I can imagine, although I don’t like the idea of you having to go through something that’s brutal,” he says with a furrowed brow.
“Aw, come on. Doing something tough can be good for you, almost cleansing. Your runs are brutal, but you feel better after them, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he says slowly. “That’s physical, though. It’s so much easier than talking about the hard things.”
“I’d say you’ve talked pretty easily with me about some hard things, and listened to my awful stories to boot. You’re not as emotionally stunted as you seem to think, give yourself more credit.”
My tone is teasing as I go to him and run a hand through his thick waves. He leans into the touch, and turns to kiss my palm so sweetly that my chest pinches painfully. Part of me doesn’t want to potentially ruin the moment by asking the question right there on my tongue. It comes out of my mouth, anyway.
“Have you ever thought about talking to someone? About your mom? About all of the new responsibilities you’re taking on at the bar, and having a father who is sick with Parkinson’s? I think it would be a really good thing to try,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to his hair.
He tenses ever so slightly before pulling back to look at me.
“I talk to you,” he offers.
“Nope. That’s not how this works. We can talk about anything, I love how vulnerable we’ve been able to become with each other, and I will always have your back. I can’t be your sole emotional crutch, though. You need someone objective to give you an unbiased perspective,” I tell him, fighting to keep my tone both firm and gentle.
His shoulders slump, his expression turning dim after he’d been smiling so brightly just minutes ago.
“I wouldn’t make you my emotional crutch. I just can’t imagine opening myself up like that to a stranger, you know?”
“I know better than most, Casanova. It’s emotionally draining, and makes you feel completely raw afterward. I plan on going to therapy again once I’m done with anger management to make sure I don’t backslide. If I can do it, so can you, yeah?”
“You’re a hell of a lot stronger than me, and you’ve been through much more,” he counters.
I shake my head vehemently, cradling his face as I stand over him to make sure I am looking him dead in the eyes. He needs to know how important this is, even as I’m scared I’ll drive him away by making demands. Making any demands of people has never worked out well for me, but if I’m going to get the life I want, he has to do work, too.
“Again, that’s not how any of this works. Trauma is trauma, baby. Doesn’t matter how much, or what it looks like. Everyone needs someone objective to talk to. I’m not telling you this to be difficult, I’m telling you this because I know from experience how letting things fester withouttalking can be damaging,” I throw back. Are we really arguing about this?
He sighs, and rests his forehead on my stomach.
“You just had to throw that ‘baby’ in there to make me melt, didn’t you,” he huffs.
“It’s because you’re being a baby,” I chide him with a laugh. “Are we having our first ever marital spat?”
“This isn’t a spat, it is me whining and you calling bullshit on it. I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s been easier to open up with you because you’ve also opened up to me. A therapist just listens, there’s no give and take. They get to stay closed off while I’m flayed wide open,” he says.
“There is give and take. You give the therapist the things that are mentally burdening you, and they take them and teach you how to unburden yourself. I’m not saying it’s easy to sit there and spill your guts. I certainly could not do it when I tried as a teenager. It’s worth it, though.”
“It’s that important to you?” He’s looking up at me with intense focus, his eyes roaming my face.
“It is. If we’re going to succeed as a couple, we need to get our mental health in check,” I assert.
He burrows his face into my stomach again.
