Some things in my life are coming to a head. Things I don’t go into detail about here. This is still an anonymous blog after all.
I read about others going to therapy and it being well… therapeutic. I have friends who are therapists… and I know they help people. I know all this in my head. But I won’t do it. Will. Not. Why? For several reasons, the foremost being that my shit is my shit to deal with. And I want to deal with it alone. Heaven forbid I get told how I handle it is wrong.
So I don’t do therapy.
So when things start to come unwound I simply wind up tighter. And tighter. Until something snaps. Last night I snapped. And Nathan was there for it.
“You don’t understand,” I sobbed.
“I do,” he argued, “But I think you’re wrong.”
I railed against him for an hour and a half. There were tears, angry words, wailing and gnashing of teeth. We were in each other’s face. Literally at the other’s throat. I called him an unfeeling bastard. You see, I wanted his support in something that he fundamentally disagrees with me about. This something is more important than anything I’ve faced in a very long time.
Somewhere in the altercation I quieted and in a low, almost gravely voice I said, “Nathan, you are my person. You are the man who matters to me more than anyone. And I’m your person. We know this. And [this issue] matters to me deeply. And as my person, even though you disagree, I need you to support me in this. Even if you don’t believe in it. I need you to be supportive.”
Whatever Nathan was going to say only came out as a giant exhale. We both stood in my bedroom. Still. Unmoving. I poked the bear once more.
“I hope you make the right decision,” I said, my eyes narrowed and my chin lifted. It was a dare. A not-so-veiled threat. What would he choose? His pride, his viewpoint, his constant need to be right? Or me.
Our eyes held for a long time. The sort of hold so intense that you can see the other’s eyes darting back and forth between your own.
“Ok,” he said.
I lifted an eyebrow.
“Ok,” he repeated, “I don’t agree. And I’m not going to pretend to. But I will be supportive.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Later I shed more tears, but not ones in anger. Just the bitter tears of sorrow and frustration and unnecessary self-blame.
“You can’t blame yourself,” Nathan said. “This isn’t your fault. Do you see that?”
“I’m not stupid,” I sniffed, “I know it’s not. But what I know isn’t helping how I feel. There’s a difference.”
Much later, we were in bed, me with a book, him with his iPad, unwinding in our usual way. I leaned over and kissed him on his bare shoulder.
“I’m sorry for the hurtful things I said in the heat of the moment,” I whispered.
“It’s ok baby,” he said, giving me a peck on the forehead.
“I really am sorry.”
The man may not understand the difference between thinking and feelings, but I’ll give him this: never once, during my entire diatribe, did he attack me verbally. He took what I dished out. He defended himself. He disagreed vehemently with me. But he did not go on the offensive.
Wouldn’t it be better not to snap? Maybe. Would a therapy session have let to me get to my moment of clarity sooner and without so much drama? Perhaps. But here’s the real reason I don’t believe therapy would help me: I wouldn’t be honest with my therapist. I know this. And, besides… I have y’all. So like I said: fuck therapy.