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We continue the session. Eventually it loops back to where we started, my relationship with my father.
“Has your father ever given a reason for why he expected certain behavior? Wanted you to meet specific expectations?”
“No. Not really. In fact, I’m not even sure exactly what he wanted from us. Just that he wanted us to be good people, be… upstanding… I guess.”
“And have you ever talked to your father about all this? Has Brent?”
“I haven’t. I’m not sure that Brent has. He does stand up to our dad. Then they’d fight. There was a lot of yelling.”
“It sounds like your father is possibly being triggered by something. You’re dealing with a lot, but when you feel ready, you might consider trying to have a conversation with your father about all this. Perhaps a family conversation. If you feel you need help with that, I’m happy to step in. But take your time.”
I give a little nod. Talking is something Hale men don’t do particularly well. But we also haven’ttried. If I’m learning anything in therapy, it’s that putting the effort in is half the battle.
When our session is finished, I make my way out to the car, feeling worn down, like I spent hours in that room today. The rainy weather is a match for the dreariness I feel as I drive home. Actually, it’s beyond dreary now. Everything we went through today is settling on me again as I think back over the past year. The depth of pain and brokenness I felt. How utterly alone I felt. Like everyone said they loved me but I didn’t feel their love. And I’m not sure if it’s because of me or them or both.
By the time I get home, the emotions I pushed back during therapy have risen to the surface, threatening to explode out of me.
I walk in the door, my footsteps heavy.
“Hey, little bro!” Brent calls from the kitchen. “I thought I’d pop over and make you some food. You deserve something home cooked that isn’t from The Pit.”
I don’t deserve shit.
There’s that negative self-talk again.
Fuck.
I hate this. Hate feeling this way.
“Braden?”
I drop onto the couch and put my head in my hands as my body starts to shake. A moment later, the couch shifts next to me. “Brade? What’s going on?”
“Intense… therapy… session.”
“I’m here. You can talk to me.”
My body shakes harder and I can barely breathe between the sobs.
Brent wraps an arm around my back and pulls me upright. “I hate this.”
“Hate what?”
“Feeling so worthless.”
“You’re not worthless. You’re not.”
His hand is still tightly wrapped around my back. He turns slightly toward me and pulls me tighter to him, wrapping his other arm around me, too.
“I pushed everyone away.”
“But we’re all still here.”
“Then why—” I choke on another sob. “Why wasn’t anyone there to catch me when I was falling?”
The dam breaks and tears pour through. Brent holds me tighter. “Shit. I don’t know. I don’t know. I wish I would’ve been here. If I had—maybe I would’ve seen it. Helped reach you—”
“Why does everyone always see the worst in me? I know I messed up but—”
