$$ The Story of Sarah

My therapy appointment went really well this week. With the physical and—slowly—the emotional separation from Scott, my therapist wanted to know how I got this way. I started therapy with her in a tizzy over domestic abuse and suicide attempts and rehab, and now that the immediate reasons of why I sought professional help had become that of a controlled fire, she wanted to learn the underlying causes.

With every age bracket, she asked what I most remembered about pre-school (not much, but I was told I was a reader), elementary school (bullied by the entire fifth-grade class led by one Michael H. that I still periodically cry over the meanness of it all), middle school (extremely shy, not a lot of friends), high school (oh dear god, where do I start? The realization that I lost the father lottery, the angry mother who told me I was heading for average-ness, the death of several friends within several months, or the Christian cult who told my close friends not to talk to me anymore?) And then she asked for the most traumatic singular event in my life (hello, boyfriend who pooped in my car and then choked me over it).

During the half-hour exercise, I cried when I regaled the story of the Southern Baptist youth leader who told children not to be friends with a little girl, and I hollered when I described the rage of the physical fight I had with my boyfriend. And she said it was okay to react that way. It felt good to tell my life story—the story of Sarah—to someone who listened and didn't make me feel shameful over it.

I watched as my therapist widened her eyes, her mouth forming a perfect O. When I was done yelling, I folded my hands in my lap and looked down at them. She closed the manila folder which now contained the Story of Sarah and looked at me in the eyes. "No wonder," she began softly. She leaned forward and made sure I was paying attention. She repeated a little louder, "No wonder you found yourself in this position with your boyfriend and you tried to stay and make it work as long as possible. At every critical emotional-forming point of your life, you've been met with opposition. You've been told it's better to be in a bad relationship than to be single, and you've been consistently told you're not good enough. You," she said, "have a broken heart."

I immediately understood she was not referring to Scott, but to my life in general. Right when we discovered the meat of my issues, my time was up. She's always encouraged me to come every 2 weeks instead of every week, but this time she looked at her planner and said, "Same time next week?" and then probably drew dollar signs next to my name. I smiled. It was official: I was fucked up. And the validation of knowing I was fucked up was priceless. It made me positively giddy.

When I got home, I walked in the kitchen and poured myself a congratulatory glass of wine. My mom hovered around, hoping I'd share some of what went on. I told her my therapist asked about my childhood and then declared that I have Major Issues. "So long story short, I probably should have been in therapy 20 years ago," I laughed as I tipped back the wine glass.

My mother crossed the kitchen and grabbed me. She didn't share my joy at the news. she held me tight in what felt like an apology for things that were mostly out of her control.