“Because for Christ’s sake, for five years I’ve been essentially handling the boys from morning till dark by myself. He has a few single-weeks alone with them and he’s already pulling his hair out. Give me a break. It’s like he feels there’s a different reality when he’s with them than when I’m with them.”
“What’d you do when you left Eric’s apartment?” Dr. Greene furrows her brow a bit. I know what she’s after.
“I didn’t cut, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Did you want to?”
“I always want to,” I spit out before I can consider the answer.
Her eyes widen a bit. “That’s pretty honest, Natalie. That’s good.”
I shrug.
“Why don’t you do it, if you always want to?”
Instantly, my eyes are filling with tears. “My boys . . . I . . . they need me, you know? It’s like the second we got Ollie’s diagnosis . . .”
“What?” Dr. Greene asks, as I’ve silenced myself with tears.
Letting out a frustrated groan, I continue, “The second we got his diagnosis was the first time I felt an overwhelming surge of motherhood. How awful is that? It took almost five years and a degenerative condition to get me to feel like a mother?” Vocalizing it is too much, and I quietly cry for a few minutes.
“You don’t think you felt like a mother before then?”
“Not a good one.”
“Why not?”
“Because I hated it. I hated every second of smiles and ABCs and breakfast, lunch, nap, dinner, bath, bed, repeat. I hated it. I hated every stomach bug that had me in PJs for days on end, and I hated that my husband was out using his brain every day, while mine turned into strawberry oatmeal with a fucking cartoon character on the box.”
“Do you hate it now?”
“No,” I sniff.
“Why not?”
“Because I only have to do it every other week.” I shake my head.
Becoming a full-time parent every other week has felt rejuvenating, and with that admission, which took only a day, came a fresh batch of guilt.
“Natalie,” Dr. Greene coos, “just because you didn’t like being a stay-at-home-mom doesn’t mean you were a bad one. From what you’ve told me, your boys are bright, happy, and appear to be well adjusted, despite the new challenges. That didn’t happen by accident. And,” she sits back with a grin, “it’s not horrible that you are doing better with having them part-time. That just shows that being a stay-at-home-mom wasn’t the best choice for you.”
I laugh. For the first time in several days, I release a full-throated laugh. “No shit.”
“And, since you’ve admitted that you’ve wanted to cut, but haven’t, do you think you need to feel guilty about feeling better with your new arrangement?”
“No.” With a deep breath, the tears dry.
By the time the next Sunday rolls around, and I’ve dropped the boys off at Eric’s, it’s the first time I’ve had to think about the fact that I haven’t heard from Ryker since he came to my therapy session. Maybe it was too much. I said a lot of things that were hard for both of us to hear. I miss him, though. I’ve missed him for ten years, and now that he’s kind of back in my life, I think about him even more. While I know that he’s not the same Ryker I met twelve years ago, as much as I’m not the same Natalie, seeing him doing well just gives me hope . . . in a lot of things.
I call Tosha and Liz to invite them to my apartment for dinner as a means of distraction. Ironically, the weeks where I don’t have the boys seem to be the biggest triggers for my cutting. The stillness of the airwaves in my apartment, the apparent lack of immediate responsibility, it can lead my mind down some dark alleys and leave me staring at my bathroom door. It’s getting better—the urges, and the trips down the alleys—but I know they’ll always be there, and it’s my responsibility to myself and my boys to learn how to navigate my way out of there.
“You’re looking good, Natalie.” Liz squeezes my hand as she kisses my cheek.
“I’m feeling good.”
“No cutting?” Tosha butts in with her sassy attitude. I know she’s concerned, but I’m grateful she doesn’t sugarcoat it.
“Not for six weeks.” I sigh in a mix of relief and nervousness.
As we sit for dinner and drinks, I fill them in on the last couple of weeks with Eric, the boys, and therapy. I explain to them that cutting is like any other self-medicating behavior, and I have to treat it like alcoholism, or any other addiction.
“So is your therapist walking you through the twelve steps, or what?” Tosha pours her third glass of wine. We’ve all had a lot to drink.
I shake my head. “Not really, but we’re talking about the themes, admittance, acceptance, forgiveness . . .”
“That last one’s a bitch.” Liz snorts as she opens a new bottle of red.
“No kidding,” I snicker.
“How’s your “Ryker guilt” doing?” Tosha stares at me skeptically.
“Actually,” I sigh, “it’s okay. I mean, I feel bad about dumping a decade’s worth of insanity on him, but I felt almost high afterward . . . like I had advanced to some higher level of self-acceptance.” My phone rings before either one of them can respond.
“What?” Tosha must see my face fall.
“Serendipity is drunk, it’s Ryker.”