A tight-lipped smile, like she’s holding something back, is Leanne’s response. I didn’t realize it until her silence was the only response to the amount of time it’s been since our loss, but I expected her to be shocked. To judge or even berate Kendall, even myself. But she doesn’t say anything. So, I continue.
“I almost feel like she should be over it, but then I don’t even know if that’s the reason she needs therapy. Maybe it could be something else. Maybe the miscarriage triggered something in her back then, and she never fully bounced back from it.” I pause, shifting my weight by leaning forward on my knees. “Or maybe I’m just really bad at helping her.”
“Why do you think that?”
I look at her for clarification. Which part? That I think Kendall should be over the loss of a child who never was? Or that all of this could be something else? Some other inexplicable reason she never bothered to talk to me about. Or that I’m just a shitty husband. A shitty, useless partner.
“Why do you think you’re bad at helping her?” she clarifies.
“I talk to her, and I feel like I make things worse,” I answer shakily. “I seem to always say or do the wrong things. And now…now, I don’t even think she wants me to keep trying.” I look at Leanne with glassy eyes. “I think she’s giving up on us.”
“Different people cope in different ways,” she tells me, her attempt at reassurance. “Some coping mechanisms are healthy, and some—actually a lot—aren’t.”
“What are some unhealthy coping mechanisms?”
“It could be a wide range of things like avoidance, procrastination, or even more harmful things like binging things that bring temporary comfort, like addiction, or…physical self-harm.”
I blanch at the thought of Kendall using those kinds of coping mechanisms to survive. “And what are some healthier coping mechanisms?”
“I mean, therapy is good,” she says with hope. She gestures a hand in my direction, the perfect example of my own healthier coping mechanisms. “Meditation, breathing exercises, exercise in general, connecting with friends and family you trust, writing, journaling?—”
“Journaling?”
She nods. “Writing things out can offer some perspective. Give you a clear head when things are a little muddy. Usually a different outlook on things you didn’t really see before.”
“How about letters?”
“Letters?”
“Yeah, like emails,” I clarify.
“Anything really,” she answers. “Sometimes your thoughts can get unorganized and jumbled in your head, and it helps to declutter them by putting them in front of you. And that can be in any form. A letter, an email, in a journal, with a pen and paper, in front of a keyboard. Whatever works for you.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that something you’d like to try?”
I don’t tell her I may already have. Instead, I quietly answer, “Maybe.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kendall
THEN
From: [email protected]
Hi Bean,
I know I just wrote to you not too long ago. I recently realized I seem to come back to writing to you when I’m having a harder time than usual. I’ve been thinking about going to therapy. I don’t know how much good it’ll do. I don’t even know where to begin. But for now, I’ve looked into some therapists in my area. I heard you can do sessions online now, so that’s kind of an added plus. It’ll make things really convenient, for sure. I guess we’ll see.
I met Katy today, which is probably why I’m kind of having a hard time. We came to visit your Auntie Sylvia and Uncle Tommy, and Katy is their little girl. I think you would’ve made the perfect playmate for her. At least, once she has better hand-eye coordination. It would give us an excuse to visit more often. Just so we could see you two grow up together. She’s only a few months old, and I think it was the first time I’ve ever held a baby. Well, except for you. I’ve held a baby kitten before, and I had to be just as careful, but it’s not the same thing. But it made me think of you.What it would feel like to hold you again when you’re bigger and stronger. How careful I would have to be with you in my arms. If I would’ve been able to stop your tears just by rocking you, kind of like how I did with Katy. What kind of cute little outfits I would put you in.
I know one day, I’ll stop writing these letters. I’ll go on with my life and have a future where I’m not constantly thinking about my past. I don’t even feel like I’m writing these letters to you anymore. I feel like I’m just…writing them. Sometimes in my car, before I drive home, I’ll tap one out on my phone. Or sometimes, like tonight, with James asleep next to me. Just so I can say the things in my head and see the words somewhere other than in my dark thoughts.
I don’t know if it’s that I miss you anymore. I think maybe I miss the idea of what could’ve been. Maybe this feeling like I’m stuck in this deep, dark pit is the only feeling that feels familiar and safe, so I stay here. I use my miscarriage as a crutch, hoping it’s understandable and the questions won’t come, and it lets me be here without being forced to claw out. Or maybe I’m being manipulated by my own thoughts and losing you was really the greatest tragedy of my life. So these dark thoughts are valid and the only way for me to move on is for me to acknowledge them and learn to work through them. Who knows.
