I made it through another day.
My boyfriend died 18 days ago. I spent most of my day in therapy with my kids. We were there for 2 1/2 hours. We each had our own time alone with our therapist. We all left feeling a lot better.
She had the kids read Tear Soup, a picture book way below their age and reading level, and they both got so much out of it. I thought they would talk about their lives and get some sage advice from a not family member. Turned out she worked with them to understand what they’re mom is going through. What I’m going through. Because my beloved boyfriend died 18 days ago. I had no idea they needed to understand that. I’m so thankful that she did.
I had my first EMDR session. A former logical New Yorker (miserable, out of my element) turned intuitive California girl (happy, comfortable in my own skin), I was super skeptical. And it worked.
She asked for a few sad memories. I quick rattled off about ten. She had me find a happy place that didn’t involve him. I was suddenly in a beautiful garden in the sunshine, reading a sign that says, “Dragon drool is good to drink.” We went through the sad memories and the trauma. I was able to break each one down until I was able to say, “I got nothing.”
I’ll need more work around this. I’m going back for more. She doesn’t think I will need a lot of therapy. I told her that I was finally done with therapy within the last year. I was so good! Happy. Healthy. I’d finally let a good man love me. And I let myself love him. I was stable. I was even clearly recognizing my parents’ emotional abuse, and I was able to just roll with their bullshit and not engage. I was done with therapy, God dammit! Or as we say around here often, God dammit Rupert. Because if its funny later it’s funny now!
But the fact is that life is hard and weird fucked up shit happens. Like my boyfriend dying. So therapy it is, once again. Part of me wonders why I bother, since we’re all just going to die someday soon anyway. Part of me knows it’s because we need to make sense of the shit and enjoy what little time we have.
My biggest takeaway is that my monkey brain is going to keep trying to untangle and make sense of his senseless death. And that’s okay. It can do that. I don’t need to get emotionally involved. Just let the brain go and do its thing. But like with my parents, I can’t change it but I can change my reaction to it.
I’m not in that beautiful hotel room wailing on the floor hearing that life changing, awful sentence. And if/when I do get stuck there, I have a way to escape. I’ve created a path, and it’s in my brain. Moving from that place will, has, finally allowed me to breath a little. It’s created a bit more ease.
I spent my afternoon building an IKEA cabinet. I started it, oh, 5, 6, 7, 10 days ago for my housemates. It had been sitting in the garage since I moved in. I almost returned it a few months ago. Now it’s a nice dark wood set of drawers in their closetless bedroom. It feels good to have completed a project.
We almost went to the crash site tonight. But it felt so good to be on the deck with friends, quietly enjoying our buzz and talking, sharing, listening, caring about each other. We have a calla lily and wildflower seeds. We’ll get there.
I miss him.