$100 to cry for a 50 minute hour

Therapy again today. This time with M.

M went to see Dr. J yesterday. Alone. The getting to know you, getting to know all about you appointment. She told him, after he surely expressed his desire for a break from us, that a break would be our first order of business. A break-up. A done for now. An over.

No surprise. I had imagined her, quite vividly, saying things like: “H, leave M alone for god’s sake.” or “H, are you BLIND?” or my personal favorite, “H, enough with the crying already.”

Forewarned from my imaginary Dr. J, I suggested that we have a Last Hurrah! on Wednesday. A final night of getting high, eating cheese puffs and laughing at silly things. It would be fun! It would be cute! It would be a little something to keep in our pockets as we navigated what came next! “OK!” he said. “Cool!” I said. It was a date.

Wednesday night. After band practice. Quick phone call. He’s on his way. I’m starving when he gets here. We opt for pizza and beer instead of pot and cheese puffs. Fine with me! We get to our little neighborhood hang out, M looks sad and distant and lost and afraid.

He confesses he doesn’t want the break. Declares that she isn’t the boss of him. Proclaims that we can still hang out. Exclaims that he doesn’t even want to GO today because he doesn’t want to hear that we can’t see each other anymore.

What? Huh?

In a complete role reversal, I say no, no. No and no. We have to do what she says, we are stuck in a rut. We can’t keep doing this over and over. I can’t keep doing this over and over.

But.

Inside, I puff up with a little hope. Maybe this break seems more real than our other attempts. Maybe he is afraid to lose me. Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of our being apart. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

We go. In the car, on the way there, we laugh and make jokes about it. I say it’s like going to the airport for an unwanted goodbye. I call make-believe shot gun and declare that I want to the be one leaving on the imaginary journey to a far and distant land. He says OK. I sneak in a few hand squeezes. An arm pet. I tear up. He looks sullen.

“I’m ready for you two now.”

We go into her office, lit in afternoon sun, clean, cozy.

“M, what do you want to get out of this process.” Dr. J. says.

“A break.”

Did I miss something? I laugh, in a guffaw sort of way. I get looked at. He goes on. The session goes on. Conflict resolution tips. Rules for us to live by in the upcoming week. M says some things that hurt. I maybe say things that hurt M. At the end, I say the “but.” But he said this today, but he said that last night, but he didn’t even want to come today because of the break, but he didn’t want the break. But, but, but.

I start to cry. Hard for a second. Disappointed. Hurt. Confused. I hide my face behind my hands feeling forever gullible, forever blind, forever a hopeful 5 year old trapped in my 33 year old body.

“M! What?” Dr. J spins her chair toward him. “Is that true?”

He nods yes.

“Look what you are doing to her.” she points at me. I feel like I’m just over 2 feet tall, my feet dangling off the edge of the couch cushions, wearing a blue jean jumper with an apple embroidered on the pocket, my Mrs. Beasley doll by my side.

“It’s my can’t say no thing.” M says.

“H didn’t ask you anything. She didn’t ask you to hang out, didn’t ask you to not want the break. You initiated it. You said those things. She was the one saying no. That is crazy-making. You can’t say that kind of stuff to her anymore.”

She ends the session by dishing out our homework. We leave.

I am speechless. I am never speechless. Right away in the car, M says that he doesn’t want the break but needs it. Like a dentist appointment. Everything he says is exactly the kind of everything that he has just been forbidden to say. I look out the window the whole way home. When I do finally mutter something it’s cold and operational. A work detail. I get out, he drives away.

And here I am. Feeling slightly bigger, maybe 8 years old now. In bubblegum pink polyester pants and a flowerily blousy top that my grandma got me. I carry a red haired Barbie in my tiny little hand.

Hence, begins the break.

Now we are officially just uneasy co-workers. Small talk. Weird silences. Eagerly looking to the door for customers to break the quiet. We are to schedule appointments in neutral places to talk about store or money problems that arise using methods and tips that as of yesterday were foreign to us. I am to not bring up the past. He is to not say anything that I would want to hear. We are to work together as little as possible. We are to not be friends. We have therapy again next Thursday.

I will use this week. I will sleep finally. I will talk to the dozen or so ladybugs that have decided to call my house their home. I will hang out with a boy I think is cute. I will talk to and see my friends. I will finish my paint by number! I will find the perfect coolest blue tie for L to rivet to my Holly Hobby lunch box, turning it into the bestest purse ever! I will do lots of laundry. I will look this financial mess in the eye for the first time in a long time. I will scream along with Le Tigre and let it make me feel better. I will write in my journal. I will drink some beer! I will maybe see if some tea will help. I’ll stay playfully busy. I’ll start to fill the whole that is shaped just like M. I will do my best to cry as little as possible. I’ll hope someone sends me flowers. I’ll be nice to customers. I’ll look for a job. I’ll be ok.