I Think, Therefore I Need Therapy

I hate that I’ve been devoting so much time and mental energy to H lately. I want him out of my head. I told this to my therapist on Thursday. I explained my sudden, compulsive fit of Twitter-stalking (which I have since halted) and how I’d been unable to get H out of my mind.

John (my therapist) asked me why I thought that was. I hate it when he does that. He’s the one with all the training. How should I know why my mind works the way it does? But I told him the same things that I wrote here, about how it was H’s birthday, and how it’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen him.

“But that’s the point,” I said. “It’s been a year. Why can’t I just get him out of my brain? I don’t want him in there.”

“Well Jill, this might sound a little obvious, but you had a baby with him. Do you really think you can just forget about that?” he asked.

Yes, I told him, and I would be happy to forget. But John was right. As much as I want to forget about H forever, I can’t. We will always be connected by Roo (even though I like to pretend she has nothing to do with him and that he’s not her birth father). I can’t do anything about it. And as John pointed out, it is normal to have H in my head. We were in a relationship for nearly five months. We created a child together.

I know that, I told John. But why was H in my head now? Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? Back of my mind? Okay. Front of my mind? Less so. I want H on the backburner. I think that it’s because of how things ended. There’s unfinished business there, things that never happened that should have, conversations that never took place, things that need to be said.

“Well, what would you say to him if he were here?” John asked me.

I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know that I’d say anything so much as I’d kick him hard in the crotch.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I don’t know!” I said. “There are a lot of things I’d like to say to him but I don’t know that I’d be able to get any of them out.” Which is true. I can’t think well around H. That’s probably why I ended up with him in the first place.

But still, I have this strange compulsion at times to track H down, to confront him. To text him or call him or e-mail him, to show him a picture, to say, “Look, this is your daughter. Do you care at all?” But I could never do that. I wouldn’t. I don’t want him to know her, to know anything about her. He doesn’t deserve it.

“Well,” said John, “What would you do if you ran into him somewhere, out in public?”
“I was actually thinking about that earlier today,” I confessed, “And I think I’ve decided I’d probably shriek and run in the other direction.”

John covered his eyes with a cupped hand, clearly wondering if I’d gotten anything at all out of the past four years with him.

But I honestly think I would scream and run. Either that or freeze, stand rooted to the spot while my brain runs a mile a minute, wondering if he’ll acknowledge me, if he’ll talk to me, if he’ll maybe just pretend he doesn’t see me.

I doubt very much that I’d be able to say to him any of the things he needs to hear from me – or rather, the things *I* need him to hear from me. I’m not even sure what they all are. I wish I could figure them out. Maybe then I could say them to him somehow – one of those letters you never send – and push H to the back of my mind where I want him, instead of the front of my mind where he can hurt me again.