by Jodi LaPalm
Yet I couldn’t help it.
No man ever touched me besides my father...and my attacker. Everyone I came into contact with-doctors, therapists, dentists, hairstylists, optometrists-was female. I insisted on it. Shaking hands was even technically off-limits, and I often feigned a cold so the other person wouldn’t be offended.
Philip either missed my rejection or chose to ignore it altogether, and we said goodbye one final time before heading our separate ways.
challenges
Adrift in foggy fatigue, even concrete images directly in front of me appeared as a bleary haze. Slumped against the island and gazing into a humongous mug emblazoned with “I Love My Mom” in tiny pink script, I gently slid the ceramic from side to side, creating oily patterns in the now cold coffee.
“Mo-om,” Mitch called.
He was mere inches away, yet I paused for a baffled moment. This phenomenon occurred before, when I’d look at something-an object or written word–and it would appear completely and utterly alien. And I’d struggle, feverishly, to recognize its familiarity, because I knew somehow it was known.
I found myself doing precisely that and while it typically wouldn’t bother me, today it did.
Here sat my beautiful son; my flesh and blood-the child I so desperately wanted, tenderly breast fed, lovingly cradled, fearfully nursed, patiently disciplined. And for one brief–and devastating-second I couldn’t remember him.
Tears appeared as the enormity of my problem became clear. Turning from his solid gaze, I rapidly squeezed my eyelids to prevent the misery from stealing anymore precious time with the kids.
“Yes, Mitch,” I quietly whispered.
“That’s the third time I called your name,” he complained. But in the glorious selfishness of ten-year-old development, he ignored it and bounced right back to his own wants. “I need you to sign my permission slip for our field trip at the Capitol.”
“Okay where is it?” Normally, something like that wouldn’t escape my careful scrutiny.
“It’s in my backpack.”
“Well go get it! The bus will be here soon!” I screeched with renewed energy and purpose to get them on their way.
After watching the bus leave, I made a hasty run through the rooms. Ironically, the anxiety kicked into overdrive at the very idea of meeting with my therapist to discuss...of all things...my anxiety. A low chuckle escaped but, as before with Mitch, it seemed out of place.
Maybe I can get a sleeping prescription, I plotted. Helping one thing is better than helping nothing.
***
Today an aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls taunted me from its secret place. My stomach gurgled, and I suddenly realized I forgot to eat breakfast.
Once routinely settled into our assigned seats, I mutely waited while gathering wayward thoughts. Ever-aware of the clock, I hated wasting valuable time, and yet I couldn’t find where to begin.
Dr. Benson did it for me.
“Courtney. Yesterday we talked a bit about your dreams and possible guilt. Do you want to continue with those or is there something else you wish to address?” she offered in a relaxed tone.
I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever lost it altogether and, as a result, needed someone with years of abnormal psychology classes and a faded paper certificate on the wall to straighten her out.
Like I have for half my life, I lamented.
My shoulders sunk not only over my past reality but also upon the comprehension that here I sat...still requiring more help. Will I ever be right? Or will I spend my next ten, twenty, thirty, forty, or possibly fifty remaining years just trying to overcome and survive ten violent minutes?
Now helplessly heaving, slow sobs ebbed and flowed throughout my body. And with every rushing wave, my torso leaned over my lap until the fit finally subsided.
“I’m sorry. I’m just so tired,” I sighed before finally raising my head.
“Were you sleeping well before you found out about Philip?” she asked, making another note on her binder.
“Yes,” I curtly replied, so thoroughly annoyed at her incipient doodling that the wet traces of tears sizzled upon my burning skin.
Dr. Benson studied me and debated her next move.
“I know you don’t like medication, Courtney, but I can provide a prescription if the insomnia continues,” she proposed, and my wrath towards her miraculously disappeared.
“I can’t stop re-hashing the time I spent meeting him, getting to know him...” my voice trailed off with the worry this might never find an end.
“Perfectly healthy,” she said. “Not sleeping isn’t, however, and that can have an adverse effect on mood as you go through the grieving process.”
“How long is it going to take?” I wailed.
“As long as it needs to. What are you afraid of?”
Considering her question, I quickly realized the list was too long-so I attempted an edit. “I’m afraid I won’t ever sleep again. I’m afraid this pain will only get worse before it gets better. I’m afraid what that could do to Mitch and Sylvie. And I’m afraid of what it might do to me and Alex...” I rambled.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Dr. Benson played devil’s advocate.
“I’ll never get back to who I was before...all of this,” I wildly flapped my hands in the air. “And I could lose my family as a result.”
She grabbed a tissue from the side table and handed it to me. “Perhaps,” she reluctantly agreed. “But you could, quite possibly, emerge as a better woman, wife, and mother. Because while these challenges appear daunting, Courtney, they also pose a great opportunity to become stronger.”
“Lucky me,” I spat wryly.
“In some ways, yes. Lucky you. Because there are many people who never face adversity until later in life. And when they do, they have no experience to draw from. No idea what to do. They often feel such intense devastation, they can never overcome it. Then they live the rest of their lives in debilitating anger rather than recurring joy.” She paused, but I offered no response. “Your hard times, Courtney, while they may seem unfair...are actually blessings in disguise.”
Internally seething with mad confusion, I became ready to pounce as she sat there in her neatly upholstered chair with slim leather notepad resting upon khaki-clad knees. She respectfully raised her hand.
“I’m not saying you deserved these terrible things or should think of them as good, in any way,” she further clarified. “Rather, take them–once they do happen–and understand how they prepare you for the next challenge. Because there will be more challenges, Courtney. Some smaller than others, yet difficult all the same. Educate yourself and embrace the knowledge you gain...”
“I just don’t know how many more challenges I can handle,” I sarcastically interrupted. “I’ve had my quota thank you very much.”
“Let’s talk about Philip or Alex,” she changed the subject. “Anything else you want to share?”
“Well, I told Alex about Philip’s death last night, and it went okay. He was supportive, but I still felt terrible.”
“His knowing will help the process,” she assured. “Did you get any relief from telling him?”
“A little. But he still doesn’t know Philip was married at the time so that remains a problem.”
“Will you ever tell him?”
I shrugged my shoulders with obvious exaggeration and feigned interest in the insanely long titles of binders and books lining her shelves.
“What do you fear?” she quietly prodded.
“Maybe he’ll look at me in disgust,” I reluctantly answered. “Judge me...or stop loving me.”
“And is Alex the kind of man to react like that? Has he made comments about these things in the past or given other signs?”
“No.”
“All I ask is you consider it, Courtney. It could change everything for the better by being 100% honest with him-and yourself.”
I simply nodded.
“Since we may not see
each other soon, I want to follow up on the dreams about Philip,” Dr. Benson continued.
“Okay,” I agreed, readily welcoming safer subjects apart from Alex and the kids.
“We touched on the prospect of guilt and fear stemming from your time with Philip, and the idea they might manifest themselves in dreams.”
Unsure where she was going with this, I just waited.
“Dreams-and the study of them–are such a popular arena, and I tend to steer clear of the crazier interpretations, preferring instead to focus on more realistic connections which can be made,” she explained. “And I think the dreams you described–sexual fantasies, fear of running into him, and anger at the prospect of him essentially “outing” you–tell us more.”
“What do you mean?” I became intrigued at the prospect there might be a solution lurking within what my sub-conscious did over the years to potentially work this out.
“Courtney. I think the dreams weren’t only a possible symbol of wanting him or even that time of your life back, but also a source of comfort...to know he was still out there somewhere-missing you, loving you, taking care of you.”
I just began to decipher those words when her clock chimed we were done.
***
There I remained, for an entire afternoon, sunken deep within the confines of my favorite chair in the great room. The latest meeting with Dr. Benson actually alleviated some earlier distress, but her revelations and suggestions also brought new worries to the forefront.
My OCD was on high-alert, but with a body incapable of reaction I resorted to mentally organizing rooms to alleviate the internal chaos and possibly get some rest. Yet, every time I began to groggily drift off, remnants of our discussion ceaselessly crept in.
Was my reaction to Philip’s passing more than basic grief? Could I possibly feel sadness knowing he wasn’t out there...somewhere?
Dwelling on our session only led to the past, and I closed my eyes, forcing sleep rather than memories. I gradually dozed, and yet even then he wouldn’t allow me to rest.
***
Our first official date was unremarkable, yet surprisingly pleasant. Aside from one thing, that is...Philip never touched me.
With my obvious relief arose concern I may have unintentionally offended him at our previous meeting. I replayed my actions over and over, eventually convincing myself the reflexive recoil went undetected.
Maybe he just wasn’t interested in me that way, I imagined. And the immediate apprehension over never seeing him again felt so unnatural, I readily dismissed it. Thankfully, he did call-again and again-which eliminated the bizarre paranoia and gave reason to wake each day with a glimmer of anticipation.
It wasn’t until our tenth meeting that, one night over dinner, he asked me–point-blank-why I feared men.
“What?” I stammered, nervously spearing the fork into my plate of pasta.
“Courtney. You’re funny and intelligent and positively stunning. Yet, there’s this extreme disconnect every time a man enters your personal space. I’ve noticed it with waiters, bartenders...even me,” he added softly.
“I’m not afraid of men,” I scowled. “I just don’t feel comfortable around people I don’t know. You probably think it’s weird because you’re everyone’s friend. Calling men “guy,” shaking hands and chatting with absolute strangers. You’re a social butterfly, and I’m not is all.”
“I don’t believe that,” he countered. “You appear to be fine around women.” Philip’s dark eyes captured my own, and within them I searched for possible intent or reason for such undue cross-examination.
I found nothing.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” I harshly replied. “Move onto something else.”
“Okay. Do you think we should continue to see each other?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Wh-what?” I stuttered.
“Do you think we should continue to see each other?” he repeated. Sipping his red wine, he savored it, then boyishly smacked his lips in a way that typically made me smile.
“Why would you ask such a thing?” I frowned.
“Well, my wife wants to discuss reconciliation, and I’m on the fence. While I do love her,” he mused, “our time apart has made me evaluate the failings in our marriage more closely. And to be quite honest...I’m not sure if all of them can be repaired.”
A shocking pang of envy shot through me when he said he loved her. I’d never met her, nor seen her. I didn’t even know her first name. Yet the idea of him loving another woman–even if she was technically his wife–was very upsetting.
“That’s not my decision to make and you know it!” I accused. “You need to do what’s right for you.”
But what about me? I silently fretted.
“I’ve already made my decision.”
“Wh-what is it?” I whispered.
“I want to pursue Us.”
“Us?” I stupidly repeated.
“Yes. Us. Is it even a possibility?”
“Yes. It is,” I declared.
He leaned back against his chair with the loveliest smile I’d ever witnessed, and the light encompassing his eyes removed every dark worry. More importantly, that night became the first night I allowed him to touch me.
remedy
A ferocious slam of the back door jerked me awake. I rarely napped and immediately looked around, puzzled.
“Mom! Where are you?” Sylvie called. I heard the rustle of backpacks and jackets and shoes being shed.
“Get out of my cubbie, Syl,” Mitch ordered.
“Just hold on,” she whined.
Groaning like a woman two decades my senior, I rose stiffly from the chair.
“MOVE NOW!” Mitch yelled, and a second later Sylvie squealed in agony. Rushing to the mud room, I discovered her clutching an arm and crying dramatically while Mitch calmly tossed things into his now-vacant cubbie.
“What happened?” I shouted, inspecting her blotchy skin.
“Mitch gave me a snake-bite!” Sylvie spat between sobs. Huge tears fell along porcelain cheeks, landing on her pale pink cardigan. I stared in wonder at the intricate daisy pattern, marveling how much the wet spots resembled raindrops as they hovered–mid-air-over the miniature embroidered landscape.
“I told you to move,” he said and heedlessly sauntered into the kitchen.
“Mitchell! Get back here now!” I shrieked.
“What?” he replied with an exasperated attitude, which only fueled my already-short temper.
“What?” I repeated snidely. “Did you give your sister a snakebite?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Tell her you’re sorry,” I insisted.
“Sorry,” he mumbled while Sylvie sniffled and wiped her nose on a sleeve.
“Say it like you mean it.”
“But Mom,” he argued while I glared over him.
“I’m sorry, Sylvie,” he told her sincerely.
“S’okay,” she answered with a sugary smile.
“Now I want you both to go, have snack together, and listen–I mean listen–to the other tell about their day.”
Their whining became nails on a chalkboard, and I raised my hand for silence.
“The sooner you do it, the sooner you’ll be done. Sylvie goes first. And Mitchell,” I turned to him, “if you do anything intentionally like that again, your video game system will be in the yard sale pile. For good,” I threatened. And he sheepishly nodded, knowing how much I meant it.
While hanging windbreakers and sorting through books, I reflected on my life before this one. Was either really easier than the other? I reasoned. Like Dr. Benson said, there have always been challenges...some big and unimaginable and others small yet of great importance.
Bored with insightful questions, which lacked valid answers, I shook my head to rid such profound thinking. I had enough with reflection. I needed to be a parent.
Rifling through homework assignments, I stalled to afford the kids privacy. They chatted in t
he other room over apple slices and string cheese, and I smiled, knowing they’d be civil for at least the rest of today. I sighed victoriously and entered the kitchen with my piles of papers just as the phone rang. I reflexively checked Caller ID.
“Hey,” I answered shyly.
“Hey back,” Alex replied.
Once we fell asleep last night there had been no opportunity to discuss Philip further, and now I not only felt embarrassed but troubled about Alex’s reaction.
