Page 87 of Bi-Partisan

“But it hasn’t been this bad since the primaries. I feel like I’m trapped in my head, and there’s all of these voices in there shouting at me—telling me I’m going to lose, that Mitchell is right about me being the worse candidate, that I should just withdraw from the race because clearly I’m not cut out for this, that maybe I don’t love politics as much as I thought.” His voice cracks, and I hold him a little closer as he continues. “And I know that none of those things are true. As much as it sucks sometimes, I love politics. I know I do. And I know I’m good at it. But right now I can’t get any of those stupid voices to fucking shut up, and I don’t know what to do.”

I stay silent for a moment, allowing it all to sink in. “Do you want me to listen and validate right now, or do you want me to help problem solve?”

“Both? In that order?”

I nod. “I understand all of that—like, on a very fundamental level, I know how you’re feeling, and it sucks.”

He sighs, allowing himself to relax deeper into my lap. “You thought about quitting being a vet and moving to Hawaii to run a surfing school?”

“I almost quit vet school twice,” I admit. “Although, instead of a surfing school in Hawaii, it was a bookstore in Ireland.”

“Why Ireland?” he asks.

“Honestly, the accents,” I say, earning a small chuckle.

“So, how did you get past it?”

“You’re not going to like it, but…”

“Time?” he guesses, deadpan.

I nod. “Time. I also went to therapy, which helped me figure out where the feelings were coming from and what triggered them.”

He sighs. “Unfortunately, I don’t really have time since the debate is tomorrow, and I don’t have a therapist to help me figure out what my triggers are.”

“I have a theory, if you want to hear it,” I offer.

“Yes please,” he says, his voice small.

“I think it’s facing Mitchell head on.” I pause for a beat to let it set in. “You said you haven’t felt this level of anxiety since the primaries, which was when it was solidified that you’d be facing him on the ballot. And now, you’re literally coming face to face with him for a debate.”

His brow furrows as he processes for a minute. “Well, the timing makes sense for that to be it, and I also get more agitated, even when he’s just mentioned. But why? Why is facing him such a trigger for me? Is it just because he’s my opponent? I wasn’t like this in the last election.”

“You also weren’t outed and facing an opponent who likes to bring it up with subtle digs every chance he gets.” I lift a hand to card my fingers through his hair. “I know it probably isn’t what you want to hear, and it’s also easier said than done, but you have to try to be gentle with yourself. Coping with anxiety only gets harder when you beat yourself up over experiencing it. Same with recovering from burnout—especially as far into the stages of burnout as you are. The more guilt you feel over experiencing these feelings, the more they’re going to spiral out of control and the longer it’s going to take to heal.”

“You’re right. That’s not what I want to hear,” he says, and the resignation in his voice is the only thing keeping me from immediately apologizing for overstepping.

“I needed to hear it, though.” His fingers drift up into my hair, and he drops his forehead to rest against mine. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He lets out a slow breath, then nuzzles our noses together. “I’m so grateful you’re here. I know it’s only been a week, but I missed you like crazy.”

My breath catches. “I missed you too,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Tugging gently on my hair, he angles my head back to press a barely there kiss on my lips.

“I know there isn’t much I can do to help with the source of your stress, but maybe I can try to help get you out of your head, at least,” I suggest.

“And how would you want to do that?” he asks.

“What would help right now?” I ask.

“Honestly?” He sighs. “I just want to turn my brain off. I want a few hours where I don’t want to have to think, or make choices, or be a leader… so if you have any ideas of how to make that happen—because I sure fucking don’t—then please tell me what to do.”

I think for a moment, sifting through the things I usually do when I’m feeling the same way. But snuggling a cat isn’t an option right now, and something tells me that reading or watching television isn’t enough to pull him out of this mindset he’s in. Then my brain snags on the last thing he said—to tell him what to do.

I’ve never fully experimented with any sort of power dynamic before. I’ve never been with someone I trusted enough to try. But in the past few months, I’ve definitely picked up on some of Jamie’s tells—his response to praise, his earnest desire to please, the way his body reacts anytime I push him against something to kiss him. Perhaps playing with that element of control might be enough to get him to relax.

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