Chapter 30 Forgotten Milkshakes
Forgotten Milkshakes
Connor
“Did you do your journaling exercise I assigned last session?” Donny, my therapist, asks as I adjust on the plush red couch in his office until I’m comfortable.
“I did,” I reply.
“Would you like to share anything you wrote?” he questions.
Sighing, I reach into my backpack and pull out the pocket-sized black leather-bound notebook I bought at the campus bookstore.
You know, one of those stupidly overpriced ones?
We discussed at my last session that it may help to have tactilely pleasing objects to ground me when needed.
Thus, the notebook. It feels silky in my hands and smells like a bookstore, which reminds me of positive memories with my grandpa—he would take me for a new book every year on my birthday.
So, if I start feeling angry, I can stroke my hand over it, focusing on how it feels, smell it, and think of the good memories with Grandpa.
As I open to the first page, my eyes linger on the prompt at the top.
“Where do you feel the anger in your body?” At first, I didn’t know how the fuck to answer this.
What did he mean where do I feel it? Sometimes I feel angry—the end.
But as I thought back to some of my angriest moments—the other week with my dad, when I decked Karsen, even when I first found out about my dad cheating—I realized there were signs of my anger that manifested physically.
My hands often clenched, which made sense, and I also felt tightness in my chest, which I often ignored in the moment because there were more pressing issues.
Also, my head tended to feel hot, like all the blood was rushing there at once.
I realized that’s probably where they get the term “hothead.”
I certainly don’t think of myself as a hothead, but I also don’t like it when I get so angry that I feel out of control.
Donny coughs, and I realize I didn’t actually answer his question.
“Sure,” I say noncommittally.
As we continue through the session, Donny asks, “What rules do you believe you have to follow in your life? The things that are ingrained in the makeup of who you are as a person? Something you don’t even have to think about, you just do.”
“Well—” I’m more relaxed and open to sharing now that I’m familiar with Donny’s process and I’ve warmed up this session, but it’s still really hard to talk about these things.
“My dad always said hard work is the cornerstone of life. You could be bad at something, but if you work hard, it has the power to change anything. So, I did. I do work hard, at pretty much everything. Grades, relationships, swimming. It’s confusing because it’s a huge part of who I am and most things I have now are a result of that hard work, but when I think about being like him… well, I hate it. I hate him.”
Donny gives no reaction to my words. He’s relaxed in his wingback chair, notebook perched on his right knee, which is crossed over the left.
He reaches up to adjust his glasses and brushes a piece of his graying hair off his forehead.
He’s giving me space in case I want to add anything else.
When he sees I’m done, he says, “Two things can be true simultaneously. You can be glad that your dad instilled something in you that has led to success in many areas of your life and be angry about what he has put you and your family through. The important thing is to recognize that one is not better or truer than the other. You can observe and feel both emotions without judgment. Acceptance of that and allowing yourself grace in these areas opens the path toward healing.”
Two things can be true simultaneously. I mull it over in my mind. Turning it every which way. Such simple but radical words.
There’s pressure at the corners of my eyes, but no tears fall. Instead, I take a deep breath, letting everything sink in, and wait for whatever Donny has in store for what’s left of our time today.
He ends up leading me in an exercise where he has me tense certain muscle groups and then relax them.
It has a very calming effect, and I think I might adopt it into my pre-race routine.
He gives me my journal prompt for our next meeting—our last mandated session—and then, just like that, our time is up.
I was so nervous when I first walked into his office a week ago, but Donny has made me feel comfortable quickly.
It’s been tough work digging up all this old shit, thinking about what I believe and why I believe it, adjusting some negative thought patterns.
I have to admit, though, it’s been a relief to talk about it.
Mom—even with all of her amazing qualities—was too heartbroken after she kicked Dad out to be able to really work through it with any of us.
So, we all kind of pretended like it never happened.
Like Dad was never with us. It worked, to a certain extent.
But I’m realizing all that time not dealing with it means it is sneaking out in other ways now, like my anger outbursts.
A moment of thankfulness washes through me that Dr. Fitz led me here. I might even continue after the mandatory three sessions. Donny said I could, and in fact encouraged it. I even thought about bringing up my feelings for Maisie today, then decided against it. Maybe next time.
I leave his office feeling both lighter and weighed down with exhaustion. I decide I deserve a sweet treat for my hard work. That, of course, also makes me think of Maisie.
I’m walking toward the creamery when my breath catches. There she is, as if I conjured her myself.
I instinctively duck behind the nearest maple tree.
Her laugh rings out above all other sounds, and my chest tightens.
I close my eyes, wondering how I got here.
I should just tell her. The worst thing that could happen is she rejects me.
Sure, it would hurt like hell, but would it hurt worse than not talking at all?
I start moving out from behind the tree, but stop dead in my tracks.
She isn’t alone. Her teammate—Dublin, I think his name is—is with her.
He’s eyeing her like she’s the sun, and I can’t say I blame the guy.
She’s the ultimate source of light and warmth.
I watch as she playfully shoves his arm, and my stomach bottoms out.
I’m too late. She’s moved on. She finally broke up with that prick Karsen, and instead of choosing me, she chose this guy.
I wipe a sweaty hand down the front of my face and do the only logical thing. Run. In the other direction. And pray she didn’t see me.
I’m almost back to the apartment when my phone chimes. It’s Maisie.
Betty: Just wanted to say, I hope you’re having a good day.
That’s it. I scan through all of her unanswered texts above it, including a picture of her and Angie dressed up for Halloween two nights ago. Guilt stabs through me. We were supposed to go together. I’m glad she still went out and had fun, though.
Seeing the visual proof of her care for me in all her texts, I wonder if I had been too hasty when I told her about the fake date.
Did her reaction really mean she didn’t like me?
Does it matter anymore? Has she moved on?
Even if she doesn’t like me as more than a friend, is it worth not having her in my life?
I shake my head and walk into the apartment building, the creamery milkshake I was planning to consume completely forgotten. I’ll reach out soon.