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I hate this. Digging up my demons and letting them trample over my soul. Letting them sink their claws a little deeper. Chip away at what heart I have left before I vanquish them.
I get it. The process is a necessary evil. Butfuck… it rips me apart.
“When I was eight, my school hosted an art fair for students in third through fifth grade. We’d been working on a special project since the start of the school year. Each student drew a word from a hat and was told to create something that made them think of that word. We could draw or paint or paste magazine clippings. Whatever we had access to. Whatever called to us. My word, ironically, was love.”
I clamp my lips between my teeth, take a deep breath then continue.
“Love means something different to each of us. My eight-year-old brain had difficulty processing the term. Had difficulty explaining love in the form of art. Even at that age, art was the one thing I loved most.” The backs of my eyes sting. “I don’t think I really knew human love. I had a warped perception of it.”
Leaning forward, I swipe my bottled water from the table and take a sip. “On the night of the art fair, I was giddy for my mother to see my artwork. Far back as I can recall, she’s worked in museums. Art existed in her life each day. I’d been so proud of my mixed-medium painting. The clipping of two people smiling at each other. I’d added various shades of red. Painted over the magazine page around the people.” I laugh without humor. “For my age, it was remarkable. My teacher raved over the piece and instilled me with so much hope. Told me how talented I was. That I’d be an incredible artist one day. Have my work on display for the masses.” I tip my head back and blink a few times before leveling my gaze. “That teacher made me feel loved. More than my own mother.”
I lift my hand to my hoodie strings and fiddle with the strands. “We made our way around the room and my mother criticized each piece harshly. As if children should be perfectionists. As if children shouldn’t create art unless it will win awards and sell for thousands of dollars.” My vision glazes over. “She didn’t even know she was degrading my piece until she finished speaking.”
The only words I remember hearing that night were trash and sloppy and hideous.
“When her eyes dropped to the small paper placard and she saw my name, I’d never seen my mother so disgusted. Her lip curled as she looked down on my wilting frame. She said,‘I’m disappointed, Devlyn. I expected better from you. You know what real art looks like. I never want to see such trash again. It’s embarrassing. You’re a Templar. Remember that next time you pick up a brush or pencil. Don’t throw my name in the garbage.’”
The first round of tears this session spills down my cheeks. The salty drops sear my skin as they trail to my chin. I swipe them away and shift my gaze to the window again. To the gloomy sky that matches my mood. Mercurial and lusterless and meh.
“I know sharing that moment wasn’t easy, Devlyn. Thank you for being brave enough to share it with me.” I nod and swing my gaze back to him. “Processing years of pain will take time. But each time you choose to come here and speak with me, it’s a step forward. One step closer to healing.” His pen scratches against the pad of paper. “How’ve things been with Shelly?”
My soul sighs and breathes easier with the subject change. The heavy thoughts from a moment ago drift off. Fade to background. Make room for the light to enter. My peace. My heart.
“Great.” My cheeks sting as my lips stretch into a wide smile. “We have our first appointment with the doctor today.”
“That’s wonderful, Devlyn. Have you and Shelly talked further about the future? What either of you want it to look like?”
At the end of my Thursday session last week, Dr. Prince gave me ahomeworkassignment. To sit down with Shelly and talk about my feelings. Not just the way I feel about her, but how I feel about all the changes happening in both our lives.
He also asked me to voice my desires. What I want my future with Shelly to look like.
Three months have passed since Shelly and I officially started dating. The two months prior were a bit rocky. Unstable due to my uncertainty more than hers. But in the past five months, I have never been more in tune with someone. More certain of what I want. More confident of the path I want to walk in life, with Shelly at my side every step of the way.
What I don’t know is if Shelly is ready to walk the same path.
“Yes and no.” When I don’t expand, Dr. Prince asks me to elaborate. Secretly, I thinkelaborateis his favorite word. “I told her I want to be involved during the pregnancy. That I want to be there for her. The things left unsaid, well… I fear she may panic if I say them aloud.”
“Like what?”
My fingers toy with my hoodie strings once more. “Am I crazy for wanting to ask her to move in? Is it too soon in our relationship?” I zero in on the fraying end of the string and sigh. “I don’t want her to think the only reason I’m asking is because she’s carrying our baby.” I drop my chin to my chest and close my eyes. “It’s not the only reason.”
As many notes as Dr. Prince writes during our sessions, he’ll undoubtedly have a novel before the end of the year. His notes are a point of reference, a way to chart my growth. I know this. He told me this. But sometimes I wonder if he takes medication after our sessions. If my long list of issues is too much for even him. He never seems put off or out of sorts, but I still wonder how he manages to breathe after such intense talks.
“First of all, not all relationships evolve at the same pace. Some couples wait years before living together. Some want to marry beforehand. And others move in together and get married in under six months. No two relationships are the same, Devlyn. There is no rule book on when to take the next step. Whether it’s sex or cohabitating or nuptials. You and Shelly have to go at the pace that feels right for you both. In order to know the pace, you have to communicate.” He glances at his watch and notes we only have another five minutes. “Before our next session, I’d like you to talk more with Shelly. Voice your fears with her. As many as you feel comfortable sharing. Then ease into the conversation about where you want your future to go with her.”
Expose my fears and tell Shelly I want her to move in.
Nausea rolls in my stomach. My mind screams to back down. My heart begs me to wait. To hit pause. Because the last time I was so utterly vulnerable to someone I loved, they squashed me with pointy heels.
“I’ll do my best,” I say with a nod, as if to assure myself.
“There’s no pressure, Devlyn.” He sets the pen and pad of paper on the table. “If you go to bring up the future, but the timing doesn’t feel right, drop it. This isn’t a race. There’s no prize for reaching the finish line before others. This is about progress. About letting go of what doesn’t serve you and making room for what you want in your life. It won’t happen overnight. And you shouldn’t expect it to.”
Let go of what doesn’t serve me. I never thought about anything that way, but I like how it sounds.
“Thanks, Dr. Prince.”
We both rise from our seats and he walks me out. “See you in a few days, Devlyn.”
