Monday nights have been Monday nights for about as long as I can remember. They’ve been mine. They’ve been therapy nights.
The very few hours a week I have all to myself. To process. To feel. To…everything.
As unpredictable as life, and the very nature of therapy is…it was nice to come home to consistency and predictability.
I’d come home, and more often than not, I was greeted by my husband with a snack being made for us to share, and a glass of ice ready for me to make a much needed drink.
It was what I needed to come home to after 2 hours of therapy, no matter how it went.
My husband has (finally) started going to therapy. He had his second session last night.
As honestly great as it is that he’s going (we’ve been trying to get him to go for a long time)….it has stirred up some feelings for me.
Firstly, Monday nights. His therapy time is 6-7pm, and mine is 6-8pm. And it’s in the same building. So…obviously, that means Monday nights aren’t exactly “mine” anymore. And I was really, really worried that it would look extremely different than what I had come to appreciate.
I didn’t know what to expect coming home last night. I had an insane amount of anxiety about it. Like…do I ask him how it went? Should I push him to communicate? Should I just let him tell me?
Will he still have a snack and a glass of ice ready for me because he knows I’ve had a tough night?
When I got home, I was relieved to see that there WAS a glass of ice waiting for me in its usual spot. And he had some naan bread and hummus waiting for me as a snack.
As soon as I got home, he told me how much he loved me, and literally handed me a snack as “an offering”. Yes, he used those words. I accepted his offering.
I gently asked about how it went and what they talked about, and he told me. Then, for some reason, I had a whole huge fucking panic attack. Internally. I didn’t say anything to him. But I did leave bruises on my arms from where I was gripping my arms so hard. Oops.
I was just feeling so insecure and terrified of….everything. Of what changes might come…if the changes would ultimately be good…or just…bringing up trauma for him. I’ve been through this journey…digging up the past…and it isn’t easy. So I worried. For him.
I got past my anxiety, and just allowed him to love me. I allowed him to show me love, and I trusted him.
It ended up being one of the best nights I’ve had with him in like…well, a really long time.
I balanced the line of drinking enough to get me out of my head…but not so much that…well, yeah. Just enough.
I just felt connected to him in a really strong way. I usually push him away and get inside of my own head. But last night I didn’t. And it was good.
As for how therapy went last night? I basically crammed about 4 hours worth of words and feelings into 2 hours. My anxiety was fucking next level, and I did not wear pants. Well, I wore sweatpants. Instead of jeans, like I ALWAYS do. My emotional status required sweatpants. It went well, and I’m just really, really grateful that I have the space to feel seen and be known and to say what I’m thinking and feeling.
I did hold back a little bit. There were things I didn’t say and bring up…I think just because of fear. Or maybe it was just a little bit too vulnerable.
My husband brought me Starbucks and left it in her waiting room, another much required comfort item. Sweatpants and Starbucks made for a great 2 hours, honestly. Even if all that happened was me having lots of feelings about LOTS of different things.
Next Monday is Christmas, so obviously no one will have therapy. It will suck having the next 2 weeks off…but my husband and I are back to being in a good place again. It feels real and it feels lasting.
We’ve had an atrocious few weeks. We’ve had them in the past as well. But we got through it this time, honestly mostly because of the support we’ve (mostly me) gotten from therapy. And my therapist.
I’m telling you. She keeps me sane when he makes me crazy.
I guess it all comes together in the end.
At least, I hope so.