Broken Promises

Chapter 27 - Therapy

Therapy. It is a four-letter word for most men. It is also one of the weirdest sections to write because it is so personal. I think it has to be done for the story to be complete. I made it a separate chapter even though it is short as I feel it will be a growing chapter over time. I do not feel the therapy is done, so I am leaving a metaphorical space for growth and understanding.

After you were born, we were offered therapy to process the situation. Like an idiot, I said no. These were my feelings, and I was not going to share them with anyone. This was a stupid decision. Too often we men bottle things up and let the feels eat us alive. It festers and the poison damages us in ways that are hard to repair.

I don't remember how many years you were gone before I first went to therapy. I decided that I need to go talk to someone. It just felt like the feelings were rising further and further up to the top and drowning me faster and faster. I was more lost than I was the day you died. Just looking at a baby caused me to choke up, forget watching a birthing sequence on TV. I have to leave the room.

I must admit that the guy was actually great. He had a little Yorkie terrier who would just sit in a second chair. If you invited the dog, he would just sit there and lay beside you while you talked. He would also let you hold him. I would just watch him. The therapist said some kids would sit there just to hold him. They would answer the therapist by talking to the dog. He was a pretty cool dude.

The therapist was a really smart guy who had a lot of insights. He told me I had PTSD from dealing with all the traumas of the CPR and ongoing day-to-day struggle. I told him that this made no sense to me. I was not military. I had never been in war or battle. He told me that I had been in a war for your entire life. The bullets and bombs were just made differently. It still feels like a weird thing to say.

I don't know how I feel about saying the diagnosis, but it does feel wrong to say that you have PTSD from raising your child. He told me exactly how to heal. I had to forgive myself, and I had to let go of the bad memories and hold onto the positive ones. He might as well tell me there is no cure. I can never forgive myself. Some sins are unforgivable. When he told me to let go of the painful memories, I told him that was every memory I had of you except the flashlight game. I was not willing to let your pain go. Someone has to be the custodian of your memory, and who better than the person who did not save you.

I went to see this guy for about four months. Unfortunately he left the practice and the rest did not accept my insurance, so I stopped therapy. That is likely partly an excuse as well. Even though my insurance did not show anyone close by, there were others within a reasonable driving distance. There are even therapists who operate online, which for an introvert is a major plus.

I must admit that after I write a chapter, I print it out to read it. Once done, I take it out and burn it. I try to imagine the pain from the pages burning up and floating away. It does not really work, but it sounds like it should. Perhaps if I burn enough drafts, it will begin to work its magic.

I made a promise to someone special, and to you in prayer, that after I finish writing this, I will go back to therapy. It is just hard to share these words with a total stranger, but after writing all this I am thinking it might be okay to do. Maybe I will just hand them all these pages and let them sort it all out.