Chapter Twenty-Four
Wendy
January
"How were the holidays?"
Dr. Angela Pace asks me from her chair, smiling softly the same way she has been since I first started seeing her a month ago.
She's around my age, with wavy white-blonde hair and tan skin; she looks like she spends most of her free time surfing. I don't know if it's her age, her casual appearance, or her relaxed demeanor, but I feel comfortable talking to her. It's easier to feel like she can relate to me and my issues.
"They were..." I grimace, tilting my head from side to side as I search for the right words. "A little uncomfortable."
Dr. Pace tilts her head, "How so?"
I take a deep breath as I think of Christmas Eve dinner.
The boys and I showed up around six, as we normally do. Liam had his last basketball practice of the year, which was just a little Christmas party with the boys playing fun games and scrimmaging.
I picked up Noah from Taylor's and rushed both boys home, got Liam showered and dressed nicely, grabbed the food I had made, and made sure Noah was dressed in the sweater Diane bought him.
I told Liam that his Dad would be at dinner. They hadn't seen their father in a month. The last time they saw him, we were both unraveling, and then... they really, truly haven't seen their father in a year.
Not since before—
Of all the things I thought would be affecting Atlas, him stopping Silas from killing himself never crossed my mind.
It felt like I was punched in the gut when he told me about that day—a day I picture so well because Molly and Jem were smiling again. My boys had been silly, making the girls giggle through the animated movie we watched.
Jem and Noah were tossing candy back and forth, trying to catch it in each other's mouths, and making a mess that I didn't even care about cleaning up.
And Molly was cuddled into my side, watching the movie, laughing at Liam's impressions with her head on my shoulder.
I remained hopeful that they were healing, grieving their mother, but also able to just laugh for a moment, just as I knew Carrie would want them.
I had no idea that at the same time, my husband was wrestling a gun away from their father because he wanted to kill himself.
My poor Atlas. It was an odd feeling how it all just clicked together in an instant, finally understanding why.
Why he pulled away...
Why he was distant...
Why he wouldn't talk to me...
Because my husband was drowning in his own thoughts, and couldn't pull himself out.
"Noah was polite and... Liam wasn't outwardly antagonistic. He mostly spent the night with his grandfather," I tell her, remembering how Atlas would try to say something to Noah, who would just nod or give him a one-word answer before burrowing deeper into my side.
I think Liam has a better understanding of his father's struggle now, but is still very hurt.
At our appointment last week, I broached the idea of Atlas joining our family therapy appointments with Dr. Stone, who agreed and said it would be incredibly helpful for us, but told me that the boys need to feel comfortable with it first. She said we should ask them at the next appointment.
As Atlas said, we had a whole year of bad.
Liam's feelings are too big for his body right now, so they keep bubbling up and shifting into anger because that's easier for him to process while Noah finds safety in withdrawing.
"It's the first holiday after everything," Dr. Pace shrugs. "Holidays are already difficult. Add in the extra stress of trying to build trust and repair a marriage, a dash of mental health issues, and you've got yourself a pretty messed-up cocktail."
I laugh, "Yeah, it was... God, it was awful. In comparison, I mean, I've had worse Christmases, but... dinner was awkward. Atlas was trying. He kept the boundaries the boys were setting, but still... he was trying so hard."
"That's good," Dr. Pace smiles, and I nod my agreement.
"It is. It..." I close my eyes with a dreamy sigh. "It was nice to see him on Christmas. He seems so less tense now. He coiled himself into a knot so slowly over that year, I never even noticed until I saw the difference."
"I was dying a slow death."
His words reverberate around my head.
"We usually don't even recognize it ourselves," Dr. Pace nods.
Chest tight, I continue. "I asked the boys if they wanted to have their Dad there to open gifts with them in the morning. Noah couldn't really give me a solid answer, but Liam—very firmly—said no. I know he wanted to say more, but he held himself back."
"He's not lashing out so much. Thinking before he reacts."
"But he still feels it," I murmur, shaking my head. "I can see what he wants to say written on his face."
Dr. Pace narrows her eyes, "Do you think it's because what he says echoes your own feelings?"
I tense, feeling cornered because she's right.
What Liam sometimes expresses in family therapy are sometimes the dark thoughts running through my head—why does he care now?
And I know that I should be happy and grateful that he does care now, but...
"I feel guilty for feeling like that."
"You usually do," Dr. Pace observes.
"When you've been told your entire life by your mother that your existence ruined her life, I'm surprised I'm not even more fucked up," I laugh humorlessly. My words sound bitchy and bitter, and I clamp my mouth shut after they're out. I feel ridiculous for even sharing them.
Your husband had to wrestle the gun away from his brother. Why the hell do you deserve to feel like this? You're the one who left him. You couldn't see that your husband was struggling because you were wrapped up in your own head.
Selfish.
Failure.
"I'm glad you recognize the source," Dr. Pace says, writing something down in her notebook.
"It's weird. I know where the thoughts come from, and I fall back into the habit anyway."
"Because people mistake familiarity for comfort," Dr. Pace says, leaning forward in her chair. Her gold nose ring catches in the lamplight and her eyes lock onto mine. "Guilt feels comfortable for you, because you've existed in it for so long that you made yourself at home inside of it."
I couldn't feel more exposed if I stood naked in the middle of Times Square.
I open and close my mouth a couple of times, trying to find the words that vanish from my head as I try to grab them.
Rubbing my eyes against the sting, the tears slip down my cheeks anyway.
"How do I stop feeling guilty for not seeing that my husband was struggling mentally? I just assumed he was a bad husband. Now I have us separated because I couldn't be bothered to—"
Dr. Pace gives me a look.
"To what, Wendy? Atlas is not your child; he is an adult, your husband, your partner," she taps a hand over her heart. "Our mental health is our own responsibility."
I shake my head, "And yet. I can't stop feeling like I should have done more."
"Can you build a time machine and go back to tell yourself that Atlas is struggling with his mental health?"
I blink at her question and shake my head. "No"
"Even if you could, what would that do? Atlas said that you filing to separate from him was his a-ha moment. He needed to come to that moment himself."
I frown, considering her words and remembering Atlas' own.
How he apologized so sincerely, how he took responsibility for everything, how he acknowledged my hurt, I tried to deny.
As he spoke, I felt my body rebelling. Atlas was probably the first person to really apologize to me for causing me harm. My mother never did for her behavior, so whenever someone did apologize, I felt like I needed to flee or deflect.
I also felt unworthy of an apology. I felt like I needed to apologize to him.
And I probably will, because... oh, Atlas. I can't even think about it without crying.
Dr. Pace's voice pulls me back, "Usually, when patients are forced into that chair—by parents or siblings, by spouses, by their children, they fail."
The word makes me flinch, but she keeps going.
"People think therapy will fix the issue for them. Therapy gives you the tools to fix it yourself and make sure you can fix it if it breaks again. I'm not a witch who can cast a spell and fix your life—you have to want to."
The words make sense. Could I have tried harder and what does that even look like? Even if I got Atlas in with a therapist, would he have actually tried, or would he have pretended? Questions I'll never know the answer to.
But at least, in the here and now, he is trying.
"Now, since the only absolutes in this life are death and taxes," she snarks, and I huff a genuine laugh.
"This is a nuanced issue. There are external influences that can make people seek therapy—namely, wanting to do better for their kids or their spouse—but that's the distinction: the person wants to do better for them, not because of them. Does that make sense?"
"I don't know," I answer after a beat.
"Why are you in therapy, Wendy?"
I blink. "To fix myself."
"Right. Because you recognized that something was wrong with yourself. What did you tell me that first day?"
"I want to be the mom my kids deserve."
"You're here for your kids, not because of them. And now Atlas is getting help for you and your boys. Do you understand the distinction now?"
I nod, "I think so, but... how do I get rid of the guilt?"
"Well, what's under the guilt?"
“What do you mean?”
"When you think of that guilt, what are the other emotions that accompany it? People don't feel in absolutes. What else do you feel?"
"Angry," I admit reluctantly.
"Towards?"
"Atlas," I whisper, "And myself for feeling angry."
"Why aren't you allowed to feel angry?"
I stay silent, clenching my jaw.
My hands squeeze my knees, my feet press into the floor, irritation slowly builds inside of me, burning hotter and hotter.
"Because..." I trail off.
"Why aren't you allowed to feel angry, Wendy?"
The question feels like she just tossed a match on a powder keg.
"Because Atlas had to wrestle a gun from his brother's head! What right do I have to feel angry at him for having to suffer through that?"
My words are too loud in the quiet room, and I cringe, hoping no one in the hallway could hear that. Dr. Pace doesn't even flinch at my outburst, just keeps her face measured.
"And you weren't aware of that. Are you not allowed to feel angry for the way you were treated?"
I shake my head stubbornly.
"Anger is cruelty," I choke out, and Dr. Pace's face softens in understanding. I continue miserably, "If I'm angry, it means I'm cruel and ungrateful and unfair and—"
"—and that you were hurt?"
My mouth snaps shut.
"Two truths are allowed to exist here, Wendy. Atlas was suffering greatly from an immensely traumatizing event, and—" she says, leaning forward. "You and your children were emotionally neglected by him for a year. His pain explains the behavior, but it doesn't mitigate the hurt."
The tears fall freely now, and a sob tears its way from my throat.
"I was so lonely in my own marriage," I admit, exhaling choppily. "I was so lonely, and I just wanted him to talk to me. I tried to get us help. I had to answer the boys' questions about why their Dad doesn't talk to them anymore. And I still feel selfish for admitting all of this."
"Naming your harm doesn't deny his struggle. They don't cancel each other out."
"So, what do I do?"
"Let the anger exist. You spend so much time burying it under guilt, you forget to take a look at why you're feeling angry. And that matters. Your feelings matter, Wendy."
It takes me a few moments to squeeze out the question I'm dreading the answer to. "What if the anger..."
"What if you turn into your mother?"
The abrupt question jolts me, but I nod.
"You won't." Dr. Pace says confidently, and at my disbelieving look, she smiles. "Because you're asking that question."