NOW
“Are you not at home?”
I shake my head at the laptop screen. It’s Sylvia’s old MacBook, plugged in in the guest bedroom while Sylvia has Sophia and Katy downstairs for breakfast. I smell the wafting scent of bacon and eggs mixed with something nuttier and more chocolaty like coffee. My therapist probably notices the background behind me, a change in scenery. Not my usual bedroom or office setting, but a wall with a painting rivaling that of a Thomas Kinkade puzzle. Sylvia’s decor choice is…idyllic. I find it charming and cozy. A definite plus when I feel those aching bouts of homesickness.
“I’m visiting my friend in Washington,” I answer.
“Well, it’s good that you kept your appointment while you’re on vacation,” she says. “I appreciate you not canceling your visits.”
Vacation. This feels anything but. Though by definition, it technically is. I’m here, visiting my friends during one of the best times of the year. When the days are warm but not stifling ahead of the summer season, and when my friends are having some time off too. So we can do vacation-like things during a vacation-like season such as visiting museums or the aquarium. Stay up late watching movies and enjoying dessert.
“Are you enjoying your time there?” she continues.
“I am,” I tell her honestly. “Sophia’s having a good time.”
“That’s nice,” she responds. “How have you been?”
“Not too good.” More honesty.
I see her sit up straighter, though much of my view is obscured by the confines of the rectangular screen. “Did you want to talk about it?”
I should. I should stop this nonsense of brushing off her questions and being so damn evasive. But the towel is in my hands, twisted, wrung out, and ready to be thrown.
“I think so.”
She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she remains quiet, giving me the floor.
“James and I got into an argument,” I say. It feels like a confession, and I’m about to be given a specific number of rosaries to recite. But my retribution doesn’t come like I expect it to. So I continue. “I don’t really even know what we’re arguing about, but I just know we argued. I don’t think it matters what we argued about. But I didn’t stick around to work it out. Instead, I came here.
“I…ran away.”
Her head tilts from one side to the other. Her fingers link in front of her, and I get the vague sense she’s judging me.
“I told him I wanted to see whether or not I want to make our marriage work, and then I ran like a damn coward. I’m a shitty person.” I don’t necessarily say the words out loud to gain any validation. I don’t need it. I already know I’m a shitty person. I’m a shit wife, on my path to becoming a shit mother with my current track record.
“Why do you think that?”
I shrug like it’s nothing when it’s the absolute opposite. It’s crushing and debilitating and self-destructive. “It…adds up. I get angry at James when I don’t know what to feel. I blame him for things that aren’t his fault. I blame myself…”
“Is there anything specific you…blame yourself for?”
“The miscarriage.” I’ve never said those words before. All these years, and I’ve managed to somehow avoid the topic. It slips out of me like it’s covered in some slimy ooze, and I’ve lost the will to keep a grasp on it.
“You had a miscarriage?”
“Nine years ago,” I explain. “I uh, I went into labor too early, and there was nothing the doctor could do. So I had the baby knowing she wouldn’t survive…only to watch her die in my arms.”
I’m met with more of what I immediately assume is judgment. But then I realize her observant gaze and the way she heedfully nods at my words could just be her doing her job. I’m talking, and she’s listening. It’s as simple as that. When your guilt eats away at you from the inside, you start to see things. You make assumptions about what isn’t even there.
“I see,” she responds pensively.
“Nine years though. That’s a long time, isn’t it?” I ask.
“There’s no expiration date on grief,” she answers. “It’s also not a one-size-fits-all kind of emotion.”
“But nine years is a long time.”
“It is,” she agrees. “But the correlation between time and grief is only relative to a certain extent. It’s not as black and white as you may think, but if you are having some trouble coming to terms with it, we can talk about it.”
