Couch talk(s).
In 48 hours, I visited not one therapist, but two. Mine, and Mr. Ex’s.
While driving to the latter visit during my lunch break, I literally felt like I was driving through the twilight zone. As a homemade CD blasted beats in my car stereo, I was seat-dancing to the music and in somewhat of a good mood from successfully knocking out a crazy amount of projects at work. Then, about 1/2 way through the unfamiliar route, suddenly my stomach sank. The organ did approximately 6 backflips in a row to the likes of a trapeze artist. I’m off to compete in a game of poker and I don’t even know how to play.
At the risk of crashing my car while projectile vomiting from nerves and adrenaline, I tried to focus back on the tunes and not chance getting a DUIF: Driving Under the Influence of Fear.
“What am I doing?? I can’t believe where I’m headed. Is this really happening? What am I going to say? Will I cry? Will I like the lady sitting across from me? What are her preconceived opinions of me? What has he told her about me? Can I remain calm and poised, or will I have a manic-filled melt down?”
Then I reflected back on what my own recently revisited couch companion advised me…that, “nothing bad could come from it.” There are no expectations, no specific outcomes. This meeting would simply be an open discussion of two people who care immensely for each other over eight long years. The end result could ultimately bring us closure/healing, a friendship, or a possible reconciliation down the windy road at the pace of a tortoise.
Rewind to last weekend when I saw my former projected fiance-to-be at a mutual friend’s river-house party. We sat in the water talking for such a long time, that I burned [despite the 85 SPF evenly covering all of my skin] and my finger tips mimicked a wrinkly 85-year-old’s aged hand. It literally took the sun setting, dinner on the table, and the party attendants yelling at us to join the crowd… in order to pull our four feet out of the mushy sand.
Rewind some more. After Mr. Ex took me out for my birthday last month, apparently his friend-for-hire had suggested maybe I come in for a co-session. He then brought it up in conversation during our last round of dialogue while floating on a raft, and I spent the next several days up in arms about what to do.
Sure, joining him on a couch ”wouldn’t hurt” per se. But I’m potentially opening up a can of wilted worms. My vast database of the Ex Files were stowed away, locked up with no key, deported to another country, for good. No more do-over’s. No more second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh chances. No more embarrassing outcomes and betrayals. No more false promises.
I’ve gone as far as A) Adamantly telling friends & family that the cat had used up all 9 lives, B) Agreed [by way of an alcohol-laced cocktail napkin] to a $1,000 bet should I reconnect with him romantically, and C) Most importantly, convinced myself that Mr. Ex would indefinitely hold that title, without parole.
And now here I am…facing an opportunity to see if in fact, this man whom I invested countless courtships with over many, many years…is actually on the road to relationship recovery. Were the months and months of professional counsel, insightful books, and ample alone quiet time in the mirror of his mind enough to sincerely make a significant change in him? Not just being faithful either — but actually *wanting* to invest in a mutually-fulfilling partnership. Were all of his friends and even past skeptics who have been individually approaching me time and time again — that they whole-heartedly believe the guy has had an exorcism of the heart, be true? Could we potentially, with the help of relationship experts to guide us along the tidal waves ahead, sail us to a calm, healthy, faithful, loving shore?
I have no fucking clue. And, the thought of it scares the hell out of me.
So, I went to the office and met the person who he’s spent 16 weeks confiding to. Those 60 minutes were in fact insightful, and telling. The first 10 were spent fighting a lump in my throat; ultimately managing to only need one Kleenex by the time it was over. And I left feeling relatively stable — that the “no expectations” policy was achieved. We both walked our separate ways with no future plans set-in-stone, no scheduled couch visits on the calendar, just a day-by-day TBD for now.
Of course, as always, many will want to weigh-in, providing words of encouragement/support/disdain/contempt from both team’s sidelines. But what I’ll be listening to [besides The Counsel on a couch, The Counsel from up above, and The Counsel of my intuition] is my heart.
