16. Write About It
WRITE ABOUT IT
ANDERS
I’m once again welcomed by an empty house that seems to feel emptier by the day.
I’ve been trying to piece together whatever I did to make Parker upset with me.
I miss him. Just being near Parker has always had this special ability to silence every racing thought in my mind, and I can’t bear it knowing I did something to mess it all up.
The fact that I can’t even pinpoint where things went wrong stings the most. An entire month has gone by and Parker hasn’t said more than two words to me in passing.
I actually feel pain in my chest every time he walks by.
He was supposed to be there for me, and now he’s ignoring me.
“How many times have we talked about not putting all of your eggs in one basket?” Helen asks me after giving her my weekly rundown.
I’ve had tons of counselors and therapists over the years, but I’ve been seeing Helen now for five years and she’s been the key to holding myself accountable and “actualizing” my feelings through “words and actions.” I can’t really put what’s wrong with me into my own words.
There’s just so many things about myself that make it difficult navigating relationships with my friends and my family sometimes.
“Too many,” I sigh, fully self-aware. “I just feel like he’s the only basket I have. ”
“He isn’t,” Helen tells me softly. “He’s the only basket you want to have.”
I blink.
“You can’t just latch onto one person and expect them to give you exactly what you need. It doesn’t work like that.”
“I know.” No matter how many times she tells me, I can’t seem to remember it in the heat of a moment. “Obviously he’s not the only person I rely on for stuff. It’s just that I want something from him and he’s just dangling it in front of my face.”
“I see,” she nods, using her cryptic therapist voice where I can’t read her at all. “Have you been writing about any of this in your journal?”
Suddenly the box of my fully-written journals beneath my bed feels like a land mine just collecting dust. “I’ve been busy with class,” I lie.
Helen obviously doesn’t believe me. “You love writing,” she flatly retorts. “Writing is your outlet. It’s your safe space.”
The truth is that I know I’m just hurting myself by hanging onto a loose thread.
“Do you remember why we had you start writing in the first place?” Helen asks. “Do you remember writing down the feelings you couldn’t voice to your brother so he knew how to help you?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Surrounding yourself with people who can’t handle being emotionally intelligent does nothing to help you heal.”
“Honestly, Helen,” I sigh. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to heal from anymore. It just feels like I’m caught in a pool with walls too high to climb out of. I don’t know.”
“Write about it,” is all she says. “Not every problem can be solved in your head.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Okay. I’ll start writing again.”
“For yourself,” she adds. “Don’t write for anyone else. I want you to make sense of what you’re feeling before you even try to talk about it. Capische?”
“Got it.”
“Same time, hon?” she asks, reaching out to type on her keyboard. “If you wanted to go back to twice a week, we could do that, too.”
“Once a week is fine for now,” I tell her.
Helen gives me a friendly smile. “Until next time, honey. Get started on that writing.”