Untangling the Knot: Getting the Love you Crave

“What did you do last night?” Connie asked calmly.

By this therapy session, I was months into grief over my breakup. The raw pain of loss had waned, but not left. Shame had begun to seep in over the fact that I was still broken. I was depressed. I was embarrassed. Why am I still hurting?, I would think.

The shame of my lingering grief led me to spend a lot of time alone during this time. I probably watched It’s Complicated ten times. I ordered out a lot. (My outrageous credit card bill could attest to this).

But just the night before, I had reclaimed one joy.

“I cooked dinner for myself,” I quietly told Connie. I can remember my voice about this time: shaky, wobbly. Tears were always near. I continued, “I made sticky rice and grilled chicken, sautéed kale and sweet potato hash. Oh, and I opened a bottle of wine to go with it.”

Connie held me kindly in her gaze, “Because you are worth opening a bottle of wine for.”

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My Boyfriend Doesn’t Give Me Butterflies

“U got it, u got it bad, when you’re on the phone… hang up and then you call right back…”

As I belted Usher while walking Emily on UTC’s campus, my mind drifted to the old pingpong table that my parents used to have. Like most things from childhood, I don’t know where we got it, but it was always there, sitting under the eaves of our pool house. We would pop in the Now That’s What I Call Music! 8 CD to the boom box and listen to Usher’s “U Got It Bad” on repeat while we battled it out in the never-ending pingpong tournament.

That “we” included James, of course. James and I were inseparable for the summers of my childhood. We played basketball; we rode bikes; we walked to the convenience store; we jumped off the roof into the pool.

What else could there possibly be in life?

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Be a Fool for Love

I had gotten to the house at 10:22 AM. It was now about 11:43 and I was lying on the floor, holding my dog Lucas in front of me. His eye was starting to twitch again, so I knew another seizure was coming on. This would be his fourth.

I held him through the spasms, whispering to him, “It’s okay, my big boy. It’s okay. You doin’ so good. You my sweet boy.”

As the last involuntary muscle flexing ended, I jumped up, ran outside to clear the back of my dad’s Chevy Blazer and yelled for my dad to come help lift my 90-lb lab. We had to go to the hospital.

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