All this seemed awfully long but if I wasn’t afraid to jump off a cliff, I shouldn’t be afraid to face my own feelings while this woman holds my hand.
At least, that’s what I convinced myself of while listening to the bullshit she shared.
“Tessa? You want to start?”
Right. King dying… I sigh. “It was on a classified mission, so I barely know anything. All I can tell you is that the guys in his unit got hurt —two, much more than my friend Quinn—and King died.”
“What’s the name of the two others?”
“Bennett and Trevor.”
I feel awful saying their names out loud.
I haven’t talked to them since King’s funeral. I don’t even know if Trevor can walk and if Bennett had all the physical therapy he needed.
I was angry that King died and not one of them. Which isn’t fair.
Quinn wasn’t spared by my anger, but he didn’t give me a choice, imposing his presence day after day, month after month, year after year.
“So you never asked Trevor, Bennett or Quinn what really happened?”
“There is no way to ask. They gave me all the details they could. They were in the Humvee, Quinn sustained minor injuries. Trevor and Bennett got it much worse. Seems King was talking about me, about us, about our upcoming wedding, but I’m not sure if Quinn said so to appease me or if it’s true. They were laughing, King was happy and then he was dead. Same way that he was home, then he left on a mission, and he never came back.”
I fight back the tears that are always looming when I think of that day but Dr. Saman doesn’t let me.
“Let it go, Tessa. Imagine his death and let the tears fall.”
Closing my eyes, I imagine him laughing, talking about us and the guys bugging the shit out of him.
I can feel his happiness through me and a sparkle of hope lighten the memory of him.
And then I imagine the worst.
The Humvee being attacked, the guys screaming, blood everywhere.
And I let it go.
My lips tremble, my heart breaks, and a deep wail comes out from the core of my chest and for the first time since King died, I abandon myself to grief.
“Good, it’s time to cry for your loss. I want you to tell the story you just imagined again and again. It might be hard at the beginning, but it’s only in repeating it that you will accept it. You don’t know what happened, and maybe your friends don’t know either or they can’t tell you, but you need to tell the story of what you think occurred. Only then will you be able to live with his memory and only then will you be able to plan for a future without him, without trying to find an escape from your grief and wanting to avoid relationships with your entourage.”
Her words resonate in me. “A future without him?” I’m not sure I’m ready for it. I fist my saggy T-shirt, holding on to the last thing I have of King.
“That T-shirt...” Dr. Saman says, pointing at me, “It’s not yours, is it?” I shake my head, the tears wetting my clothes. “You needed him with you today to speak about him?” I nod. “Do you still have all his clothes?” She writes something in her notebook while I shake my head.
“No,” I whisper, “His mother took everything when he died. That’s in fact the only thing I have to remember him.”
Dr. Saman lets my words fall between us.
I can almost hear every one of them touch the floor. She’s looking at me with concern and sympathy.
“Sometimes,” she starts after what felt like an eternity, “people behave poorly in grief. Have you ever tried to reach out in the last few years?” Why would I? I’ve been left alone with nothing from him except her parting words telling me she was glad at least he didn’t have the opportunity to ruin his life with me. She hates the fact he was a SEAL and that I was supporting him and she blamed me for his death.
I scoff, “no, there was no reason for me to reach out. She was perfectly clear she never wanted to see me again.”
“We’ll discuss it next session. In the meantime, I want you to tell someone who doesn’t know your story how King died. I want you to work on sharing the facts. I understand you’re surrounded by friends who already know, but you need to share the story with other people. If you have no one, write it down, over and over. It won’t be easy, you’re going to feel your heart is torn apart, that the world is swallowing you whole, but that’s the only way to heal. Do this a minimum of once a day, and no escape. No adrenaline rush to forget and feel alive. No hiding your feelings. Be present and feel, even if it hurts.” Feeling was never the issue. Feeling too much was. But I don’t tell her and let her believe her therapy will work. “One last thing, Tessa,” she says as I gather my purse, “give this therapy a real chance.”
I nod while controlling my eyes for the rolling they want to do because of her bullshit and say my goodbyes quickly before I can’t hold my tongue.
I do feel lighter after having cried and told her the story of King’s death, and maybe, just maybe, she’s on to something. I’ll give her that.
But the idea of hurting myself on purpose by retelling the story of how my fiancé died sounds ludicrous.
And to whom could I tell it to anyhow?
Oliver is the only person who doesn’t know how King died and I’m not getting close to him after the fiasco of last night.
Why would I?
He was quite clear I wasn’t enough for him. He walked away from me and made me feel small. I shouldn’t even think about him. He’s certainly
