Whatif

"Will talking about it help?"

My lizard brain is in full on panic mode, which means that I've exercised, cooked for the next week, baked six pies, and my house is spotless. All positives, right? Or they would be if they weren't coping mechanisms for distracting myself from my overactive amygdala.

The question from Kerry is all the prompting I need.

"What if therapy uncovers some terrible childhood memory that I've repressed for 30 years?"

We continue with the whatifs for awhile until I get to the big one.

"What if I'm broken and can't be fixed?"

 ***

The woman sitting across from me laughs out loud.

We’re in a dimly lit room with muted furniture. She’s dressed in soft colors and has an Eastern European accent that I can’t place, but find incredibly soothing.  She’s delighted by what I’ve just told her, that when my OCD was really bad I used to take a picture of my stove before leaving the house.

“That’s rather ingenious, isn’t it?”

I give her a look that says “Oh, get off it” and she laughs again.

“What I mean is that for many people, well, they let OCD simply restrict their social functioning. You didn’t. You’re highly adaptive, and it’s really quite wonderful. You’re doing quite well.”

“It doesn’t really feel that way.”

“I know it doesn’t. But believe me, you’re really doing much better than you think.”

“I have to admit, I’m pretty pleased to be called “highly adaptive.””

She smiles. “I thought you might be.”

***

It is not, I think, an exaggeration to say that I owe Kerry my life.

When we talk about that period in my life—the North Country years—we talk about being in the hole.  Outwardly I was fine. I was succeeding at my career, I was dating, I saw my Twin Cities friends regularly. I was passing.

As an interesting aside, people with high-anxiety tend to be chronic over-achievers.

Back to the point. As I’ve written about, exhaustively, I might have been passing—even succeeding—but I was a bigger mess during that time of my life than I am now.  And Kerry was the one who noticed, who hopped into the hole with me and helped me find the way out.

How do you tell someone thank you for helping you get your life back?

It’s the question I ask myself as I’m dumping all of whatifs on her, and I ask myself again when she comes up with the perfect response.

“Are you familiar with a Japanese style of pottery repair called kintsukuroi or kintsugi?”

“Nope.”

“It’s the process of mending a broken piece of pottery with a lacquer mixed with gold dust. The philosophy behind it is that the brokenness isn’t something to hide. Rather, it’s a part of the piece’s history, and more beautiful for having been broken.”

Then, "Kel, no one is so broken they can't be fixed."

The T-Rex roaring in the back of my head snaps his jaws closed and goes quiet for awhile. The fourteen other Kellys in my head stop screaming.

"Thanks, Ker." I pause. "I guess I've got some pies to go shrink-wrap."

History is a Nightmare

"You all right?"

We're out. I'm picking through my dinner and taking small sips out of my glass of beer.

"Yes. Why?"

"You're just quieter than normal."

"Oh." I shake my head and smile at him. "No. I'm sorry. Caught up in my own head."

"Anything in particular?"

"The show. It was good. I'd like to see more. But . . ."

He waits for me to finish. It's one of the things I like best about him, this ability to ask questions without asking them.

I flip the program over and tap the advert for the next show. The Woodsman.

"I don't think I'll be seeing this one with you."

He scans the synopsis. "Oh. Oh. Yeah. I can see where that might have some triggers for you."

I open my mouth to say something, to give him more than the one sentence explanation I stammered out the first time we were together.

I pick up my fork instead.

***

"So what's the problem?"

"I'm sorry?"

"It sounds like there's a problem."

"No. Problem isn't the right word. It's that I haven't figured out a way to say "I'm not entirely certain you aren't going to murder me in my sleep" yet. 

"Huh?"

"I know it's not actually going to happen." I see the look on her face. "No. I'm serious. I know it's not likely, but it's the only shorthand I know for "my lizard brain panics every time I leave because I'm really happy and it doesn't know how to deal."

"You don't think that's a better thing to say than "I'm not entirely certain you aren't going to murder me in my sleep"?"

"Oh, shut up."

We're quiet for awhile.

"You know that everything you're describing sounds really textbook for victims of trauma, right?"

"I know."

***

"Oh, here, You'd like this one too."

We're lounging. It's a brilliant, blue-sky autumn morning after days of rain, but I'm disinclined to venture out. This, being alternately wrapped up in someone's arms and his button-down shirt, is exactly what I want out of this slow, sleepy morning.  I read comics and my bookclub book. He makes me coffee and messes around on his computer.  We talk, intermittently, about anime and books and video games. He explains how he's making some piece of software run better. I tell him a long, funny story about my mother. And in between I read. He messes around on his computer. 

Even my best Saturday mornings have never been this good. 

I start, a few times, to tell him why I woke up crying the night before. Why I always wake up crying when I stay over. More than that, I want to tell him how big and different and terrifying this is for me. Just this. Just this sleepy, quiet morning together. I want to tell him that it scares the hell out of me and why it scares the hell out of me and why I'm having nightmares that wake both of us up, and I come close, so close, a time or three.

But he looks up from his computer and smiles at me and asks if I want more coffee or comes and sits next to me on the couch and we read a comic together and all I can think is:

I can't. 

This, the coffee, the comics, the smell of his shirt and my perfume, this long, lovely Saturday morning is wonderful. And completely, entirely, ridiculously unexpected. It's the kind of thing I've wanted for years and never thought I was going to get. 

"Hey, we should walk to the grocery store if I'm going to cook for you."

"Yeah. It's a really beautiful day. I suppose we should take advantage of it."

I go to the bedroom and slip out of his shirt and into my own clothes, holding the soft black and white cloth to my face for one more deep breath. 

What would be the purpose in talking about nightmares now? Better to enjoy the sunshine while we've got it.  

Some Conversations, with Family

"C'mon, Kels. I want to drink wine and make doughnuts."

"Oh. That sounds like fun!"

I should know better than to trust my mother. Halfway through an incredibly finicky recipe, I push my flour-filled hair out of my face, spin around, and see her contentedly drinking a glass of wine at the kitchen table.

"Hey! I thought we were supposed to be making doughnuts together!"

She laughs. "By "making doughnuts together" I really meant "I'm going to read the recipe out loud to you and drink wine while you do all the work.""

I take off my apron, grumbling, and remove my scarf. "It's too damn hot in this kitchen." I observe, twisting my hair up out of my eyes. These days I'm wearing it past my shoulders and it gets in the way of almost everything. As I'm fussing with the last pin, I look up and see my mother snickering.

"What's so funny?"

"Well, Kel." Her eyes are sparkling. "Bite marks are just so retro, don't you think?"

I remember why I've been wearing my hair down all day and blush. She cackles.

***

"What are you doing with that?!"

"What?" I've picked up a power drill from the workbench and am carrying it out to my car. 

"What are you doing with the drill?"

"I got new plates for my car because Minnesota makes no sense. I'm going to go put them on."

"Put it down!"

I've never been very good with power tools, but for goodness sake, this is the limit.

"Daddy, I am perfectly capable of . . ."

"I know. But the tools here are all pretty greasy and you're in good clothes." He snatches the drill from my hands and gives me a half hug. "I don't want you to get gunked up. I'll do them for you."

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine." 

On the way out of the shop I take a deep breath and think about how the smell of Lava Soap, engine oil, and diesel will always remind me of my father.

"Kel!"

I turn around. "Yeah, Daddy?"

"I mean, I also don't trust you to use it. You do call it an electric screwdriver."

"That was, like, six years ago."

He raises his eyebrows to indicate that it doesn't matter. I roll my eyes to indicate he's out of his mind.

***

"You look like hell."

"Well, you know." He gestures to the infant, snuggled up in my lap. "Newborn and all. We're not sleeping much."

"Yeah. Mom says he's fussy between eight and midnight?"

"Yup."

"What does "fussy" mean?"

"It means he screams his head off from eight until midnight."

"What?"

"He cries. Just cries."

"For four hours?"

"He's a baby, Kel."

"How have you not, you know, left him at a local police station?"

He just stares at me. "You're never baby-sitting. You can take him for a weekend after his 21st birthday."

"I mean, I was joking, but I think we both know that until he's capable of verbalizing, it's probably not a great idea." 

"Yeah, it's almost like I suffered through years of having you as a baby-sitter."

I snort derisively. "It wasn't that bad." 

My snort wakes up the baby, who immediately starts bawling. I pass him back to his father who gives me a "see what I mean" look of exasperation and retires to the rocking chair. 

Unbearable

"I was actually going to order you that other sake."

"Oh. Okay." I turn back to the waitress. "Then we'll take a glass of the first sake you talked about." When the she leaves I lean across the table and stage-whisper "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

He smiles. I melt.

"No! I'm just trying to expand your horizons a little. Like you're doing for me."

I swear, they're going to need to mop me up off the floor.

***

"I'm just saying. I was offered a month's free trial to Steve Harvey's dating site, based on his book Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man."

"Well, that just sounds like blog click bait. You gotta do it."

"Yeah. I'm not really looking."

"Oh, right you're ohmygodsohappy and boring these days."

"We still talk about video games and writing and history!"

"Whatever. OMGOD, soooooo happy."

"Yes. And, if you and, like, one other person are to be believed, a shittier person because of it."

"Maybe you could start writing about how your relationship is slowly driving you crazy with insecurity."

"But it's not."

"Oh. Well then."

***

I like the little things. 

The way someone's t-shirt smells. When someone buys you a book that they loved because they know that you'll love too. Being able to get incredibly excited about something in front of them without feeling self-conscious about it. Their taste, when they kiss you. How they laugh at all your jokes, even the ones that aren't very good. The sometimes breathless way they have of saying your name. 

What can I say? I'm a simple girl.

***

"You've been having too few misadventures lately."

"What?"

"Seriously. We need you embarrassed and confessional about something, and how."

"Why are all my friends saying this?"

"Because you're at your wittiest when you're mortified about something."

"What an asshole."

"At some point you're going to have to pull it together. I'm sick of talking to you."

***

"Reality check. On a scale of 1-10 how annoying am I lately?"

"Uh. Not even."

"Are you sure?"

"Right at this moment you're being more neurotic than usual. But other than that, you're fine."

"Someone called me unbearable earlier today." 

"Any annoyance I would have (and I assure you, it's none) would be counteracted by the following A) I love you. B) I've never seen you this happy. C) By virtue of A&B, I must be happy for you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. If this were a Lamborghini, you could crow for a week. Being what it is, I don't care if you gush forever." 

"I'm happy. Just . . . happy."

"Oh, honey. I know."

***

"You smile in your sleep."

"I think I probably only do it while you're here with me."

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"What a line. I'm already here, do you really think you need say things like that?"

"You do that a lot."

"What?"

"Act like I don't mean the things I say." 

I'm quiet for a long time. "I'm not used to people meaning them."

"I guess I'm just going to have to keep saying them until you realize that I do."

I lean in and kiss him. I'm so happy it's almost, well.

Unbearable.