Chapter 24
Celeste
My recovery goes better than I thought it would.
The pain is manageable with simple over the counter medicine after a couple of days, nothing narcotic.
Between Gage and Tania, I’ve never been so looked after in my life.
Gage literally served me a huge portion of eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, and juice in bed the other morning on a tray he bought expressly for that purpose the day after my surgery.
It’s been tough lying next to him in bed and not being able to do anything but cuddle. Now that I’m all cleared to resume normal activities, we’ve both agreed to ease back into it gently to see how I feel. The last thing I want is to have anything go wrong because we’re going at it too hard.
The air is more crisp and smells of wood smoke now that it’s the end of September, and it’s my favorite time of year.
I am as basic as it gets when it comes to crunchy leaves, slouchy sweaters, pumpkin flavored anything, and I’m not ashamed.
I take my joy where I can find it. I’m walking into the community center for my one on one anger management session with Phyllis, which I had to postpone due to the surgery.
It’s fully decorated for fall now out front with orange fairy lights, corn stalks, a scarecrow, and lots of pumpkins.
My heart is pounding a little as I near the conference room. I’ve felt good about the two sessions we’ve had as a group so far, but the idea of having all of Phyllis’s attention on me this time is intimidating. She’s already seated and going through her notes when my approach makes her look up.
“Celeste, good to see you,” she booms, rising to shake my hand.
“Good to see you, too,” I tell her with a small smile.
“Ready to get to work?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, ma’am,” I say, which makes her chuckle.
“Have a seat, then.”
Doing as she says, I plant myself across from her in the squashy leather conference room chair as she hands me a pitcher of water and a cup. I pour myself some, and then look at her expectantly. She nods when she sees I’m ready to begin.
“You’ve been very clear and open about what your main triggers are, and I appreciate the way you’ve been sharing during the sessions. It’s a fantastic start to getting what you need out of this course,” she says approvingly.
“Thank you. I really want to put in the work, so that I can make sure I keep my life together without my anger getting in the way again. Not to sound snarky, but I’d like to avoid any and all assault charges going forward.”
“I think everyone in this group has perfectly valid reasons for getting incredibly angry, you included. What’s important is figuring out how to channel it productively, so that you don’t end up with charges again, as you mentioned. It’s easier said than done, obviously.”
“I’ve tried counting to ten, breathing exercises, and they help to some extent,” I tell her.
“What about a physical outlet? When you feel triggered, perhaps try finding a pillow to punch or take an online kickboxing class at home. It would help you get out that surge of anger without harming anything except maybe the poor pillow,” she advises.
I immediately think of how Gage took me to that back room to play darts when he could tell, even then, that I needed just such an outlet after I had received my endometriosis diagnosis.
I’m not sure if it was his company that helped, or the darts, or both, but I am sure that Phyllis is on the right track about how I can deal with my anger and stress.
“I’ll give those a try. I’ve also found that playing darts with my husband helps calm me. He’s been a good influence in my life these past few months. He rescues birds, and they’ve also made a huge improvement to my mental health,” I tell her honestly.
She beams.
“That’s so wonderful. Those are perfect ways to decompress and let out your anger.
As I recall, you spoke in our first session about how unwanted touch from men is your biggest trigger.
In the awful event that happens, and you feel the anger welling up inside you, I want you to think of your husband and your birds to help calm you enough to deal with the situation.
To be clear, I’m not saying let the unwanted touch happen, but use these tools to keep yourself clear headed so that you can make it out of the situation safely and effectively. ”
“I think I can manage that,” I confirm.
“Excellent. You’re making great progress.
As human beings living in a harsh world, we’re allowed to get angry.
That’s not even taking into account how it is twice as harsh for women.
I can’t stress that enough. You’ve alluded to your background before in our group setting, and how you’re sitting here speaking so calmly is a testament to your strength.
Your trigger is more than understandable,” she assures me.
“It just needs to be dealt with in a healthier way than beating the crap out of a man?” I supply wryly.
“Exactly.”
After hearing how I’m too angry and difficult for most of my life, it’s validating to hear someone say that it’s ok to have these feelings.
Not only is it ok, she’s encouraging me to feel it, recognize it, and then deal with it productively.
Part of me regrets not doing the work much sooner, when Jack and Bev got me into classes as a teenager.
Maybe it could have saved me a world of trouble.
I’m not sure I was in the right mental place for it though, and I have to focus on the fact that I’m here now and willing to do better.
We chat for another half an hour or so, going over visualization exercises, and getting into why I have the triggers that I do. I tell her the story in a steady voice, and she listens objectively without giving me sympathetic platitudes.
“You’ve endured trauma, so your trigger is a trauma response.
That’s a scar that won’t easily heal. However, if you keep talking about it, and working through it, it’ll hopefully fade into something you won’t notice anymore,” she tells me when the story is over.
Of course she’s right, because she’s Phyllis.
I feel wrung out when we’re done, which means I blast some angsty indie music on the way home. Gage is home tonight to plan his dad’s retirement party while Diana runs the bar, so I’m eager to get home to him and the birds.
After getting a chorus of greetings from the birds in their aviaries, I find Gage in his office.
He’s got those glasses on that make me stupidly weak at the knees.
His hair is rumpled like he’s been running his hands through it, and his silver chain peaks out from underneath the soft grey henley he’s wearing.
That gorgeous face of his breaks into a dimple revealing smile when he sees me.
“Hey, how was the session with Phyllis?”
“Speaking with her one on one was much tougher than the group sessions, but it was brutal in a good way. It helped,” I admit.
“I can imagine, although I don’t like the idea of you having to go through something that’s brutal,” he says with a furrowed brow.
“Aw, come on. Doing something tough can be good for you, almost cleansing. Your runs are brutal, but you feel better after them, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he says slowly. “That’s physical, though. It’s so much easier than talking about the hard things.”
“I’d say you’ve talked pretty easily with me about some hard things, and listened to my awful stories to boot. You’re not as emotionally stunted as you seem to think, give yourself more credit.”
My tone is teasing as I go to him and run a hand through his thick waves.
He leans into the touch, and turns to kiss my palm so sweetly that my chest pinches painfully.
Part of me doesn’t want to potentially ruin the moment by asking the question right there on my tongue. It comes out of my mouth, anyway.
“Have you ever thought about talking to someone? About your mom? About all of the new responsibilities you’re taking on at the bar, and having a father who is sick with Parkinson’s? I think it would be a really good thing to try,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to his hair.
He tenses ever so slightly before pulling back to look at me.
“I talk to you,” he offers.
“Nope. That’s not how this works. We can talk about anything, I love how vulnerable we’ve been able to become with each other, and I will always have your back.
I can’t be your sole emotional crutch, though.
You need someone objective to give you an unbiased perspective,” I tell him, fighting to keep my tone both firm and gentle.
His shoulders slump, his expression turning dim after he’d been smiling so brightly just minutes ago.
“I wouldn’t make you my emotional crutch. I just can’t imagine opening myself up like that to a stranger, you know?”
“I know better than most, Casanova. It’s emotionally draining, and makes you feel completely raw afterward. I plan on going to therapy again once I’m done with anger management to make sure I don’t backslide. If I can do it, so can you, yeah?”
“You’re a hell of a lot stronger than me, and you’ve been through much more,” he counters.
I shake my head vehemently, cradling his face as I stand over him to make sure I am looking him dead in the eyes.
He needs to know how important this is, even as I’m scared I’ll drive him away by making demands.
Making any demands of people has never worked out well for me, but if I’m going to get the life I want, he has to do work, too.
“Again, that’s not how any of this works.
Trauma is trauma, baby. Doesn’t matter how much, or what it looks like.
Everyone needs someone objective to talk to.
I’m not telling you this to be difficult, I’m telling you this because I know from experience how letting things fester without talking can be damaging,” I throw back. Are we really arguing about this?
He sighs, and rests his forehead on my stomach.
“You just had to throw that ‘baby’ in there to make me melt, didn’t you,” he huffs.