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?"
***
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."
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