December. I love the idea of December, but generally the reality is something different. This weekend my mother in law is coming down. We will decorate the house for Christmas and make cookies, I'm thinking I want to try those little white round cookies that melt in the mouth. I'm looking forward to seeing the glint and glitter of white Christmas lights against the dark.
My brother in law is also coming down to spend the guy time with Keith, drink a few beers, play some gruesome online video games, that sort of thing.
It was my birthday a few days ago. When I came down at seven thirty, I saw a dozen pink roses on the table and a card. My husband managed to keep the flowers a secret all the night before and in the morning when he woke me up with thirty three kisses. He was immensely proud of himself for being able to keep the secret, since usually he just can't bear to keep it in.
That night he drove us all the way down into Louisville, in five o'clock traffic, in the rain, to a restaurant that does excellent salmon and that does not have beer on tap. A friend had recommended the Bonefish Grill when Keith had been asking around. It was delicious. I had the salmon with lemon butter sauce-rich, rich, rich.
Keith ordered the steak and was surprised that it was so small; never mind that it was filet Mignon. He drenched it in A1 sauce and downed it with Bud Light. I love that man.
My therapy is going well. My therapist is an older woman with a great deal of experience and quiet competence. She has already given me some insights into myself that allowed me to continue some healing that had been held up for years. But it seems like no sooner do I achieve some measure of peace than another thing comes up, something that had been waiting for it's turn to be resolved.
I begin to wonder how much damage is rattling around in me. It's discouraging. No wonder some people don't even start therapy. I was terrified to, I was afraid it would ruin my life. It didn't, it made my life more worth living, but it certainly does drag on so.
I delight my therapist though. Yesterday she could not restrain herself from exclaiming that she loved working with me, because I listen to what she says, take it in and than actually do it. I am not like a Woody Allen character, sitting there, droning on, unfocused, miserable.
This next thing that is coming up in therapy; it won't be easy to work on. It's too close to the initial trauma and I don't like going back there. I'm always afraid of triggering new memories or even having to re experience the ones I've already seen. Maybe this will be the last of the very intense stuff. Maybe after I've resolved this I won't have anything more inside of myself to be afraid of.
