 I Know that I Am |
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Crying sometimes takes me by surprise in therapy. I'll think I'm sailing through the session and suddenly I'll go through half a box of kleenex. I've been thinking about not attending part of my ten year high school reunion because it takes place where S. and I got engaged. And it pains me to drive past that place (which I do often because it's off of a main, unavoidable city thoroughfare), let alone to imagine spending time actual there. I told my therapist yesterday that I don't really know what to say anymore, and that I'm burned out on rehashing everything about the break-up in therapy. And she said that termination of therapy is a goal for some people, and that if a person is coping reasonably well after going through a traumatic event, it's okay to go less frequently and even to stop going altogether. We agreed that I needed to be there for a while, but that the time might be coming when I might not. Who knows? We'll see. We scheduled my next appointment for a month from now but agreed that I can come back any time between now and then. And we talked about the reunion. And that's when all of the "You're doing very well." "Oh, I really do feel so much better." "You've done a lot of grieving." "I'm so blessed, I can't help but look on the bright side of life!" cheerfulness that I was honestly feeling (and really do feel, really, most of the time) went out the proverbial window. Because I just started weeping. And it caught me off guard, and I had to sit there for a moment and think, "Am I crying? Jesus." And I told her, slowly, that I'm terrified to go. And that I'm afraid I will sob into the crawfish, corn, and potatoes. And I ended up describing that day, and how amazing it was, and how it's so unfathomable, still, to think that we were once there and now we are ... here. Where we are nothing. I told her how the priest brought up the proposal at our last meeting and told us to always touch that moment and how I'll always remember that he said that. Always touch that moment, he said, and remember that you once felt that way, and what a gift that was, he said. And we both just sat there, listening to him, probably looking like we were going to simultaneously keel over and die in pools of our own barf from the grief and heinosity of it all. But what a beautiful way to put it, really. My therapist suggested going back to that place before the reunion, because going back for the first time when there are so many people there and bracing myself not to freak out is too much to expect of myself. I started coming around to the fact that it might be a good idea, because shit, I don't want to miss out on the festivities, you know? And she asked with whom I might be able to do that, and I just kept weeping and saying, "I don't know. I don't know." And I said, "I can't really imagine sharing such an intensely private memory with anyone else. It just feels wrong somehow." I told her I'd go by myself, and that would probably feel better, but might not be the safest idea, what with the serial killer and the stalking. She agreed and offered to go with me as one of our sessions. And that just made me weep some more. God, she's nice. It will always make me sad, I think. There will always be a little break in my heart because of what a life-changing event occurred there and the magnificence of that moment and the love of that day. But I don't want to never go back to that place, because it's lovely, and historic, and if there is a good reason to go back, it's for my ten year reunion. The petals of the roses he picked for me there that day are dried and in a ziploc bag in a box in the closet. So are the petals of the rose he gave me on our first date during our senior year of high school. On graduation night, we took pictures together in our caps and gowns. We went to a party together and left early and he carried me out on his back. We got drunk that night and spent the night in his bed, and I hid underneath the covers so his mom wouldn't see me the next morning. This is all so intertwined that it makes my head spin.  I think I will try. Though I don't know yet with whom, I will try to plan to go soon. When I can cry the tears that merit being shed. When I can face my fear and my memories and a big piece of this wedding experience that I've avoided, which is the place where it began. Where we walked, where we took pictures, where he knelt, where he asked, and where I said yes. Where we embraced and promised our lives to each other. Where a memory was imprinted in my mind and heart that will never leave me. It is indelible. And I know that I am strong enough to see that place again, to walk on those trails, to see that tree, to remember. To put myself back together if I feel myself falling apart. To touch a new moment. I know that I am strong enough. I know that I am. I know that I am. I hope that if I keep repeating that to myself, it will be true. Maybe it already is.
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