Page 180 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Once I get started, it’s hard to control the flow of words that just pours out of me. Before I know it, I blurt out how scared I am that I’ll mess up this good thing I have with Juliet.
“Anger is often a secondary emotion,” Dr. Chen says. Her voice is very soothing. “What do you think it’s covering up?”
I think about that for a long moment. “Fear, I guess. Fear that I’m not enough. I’m always worried everyone I care about will eventually figure out I’m not worth the trouble.”
“And where do you think that fear comes from?”
“My mother.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “She spent my entire childhood telling me I was only valuable if I could make her money. If I couldn’t perform, I was worthless.”
“That must have been incredibly painful.”
It’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me. Hell, it’s the first time that anyone other than Juliet has acknowledged that what Mom did was wrong, not just unfortunate.
“Yeah.” My voice cracks slightly. “It was.”
We talk for an hour and forty-five minutes. Dr. Chen tells me a little about trauma responses and cognitive patterns and all the ways childhood wounds show up in adult relationships. She gives me homework. Journaling exercises and breathing techniques, things that sound simple but feel monumental.
“I want to see you twice a week for now,” she says as we wrap up. “This kind of work takes time. It takes commitment. But I know that you can feel better. You walked through the door. You did the hard thing.”
“Okay.” I pause at the door. “Thank you. For not making me feel crazy.”
The therapist smiles gently. “Hunter, wanting to heal isn’t crazy. It’s brave.”
I leave her office with her words echoing in my head.
Back at the apartment, I find Juliet curled up on the couch with her laptop, probably working on something for the team. She closes it when she sees me, taking in my expression without commenting on how wrung out I must look.
“How was therapy?” she asks simply.
“Hard. Good? I think.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I settle beside her. “Not yet. But I will. Eventually.”
She nods, not pushing. She makes space for whatever I need to process.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Always.”
“You said Patrick used to make you feel you were too much. Can you uhh… tell me about that?”
Her whole body goes tense. For a moment, I think she’s going to deflect. Then she takes a shaky breath.
“Sure. Okay.” She sits up a little straighter. “He had this way of making everything my fault. Patrick blamed me for not being supportive enough when he was stressed about work. My career focus made him unhappy.”
I listen without interrupting, even though every word makes my hands curl into fists.
“He used to tell me I was lucky he put up with my ambition. Most men wouldn’t. He’d say things like, ‘You know I love you, but sometimes you’re just too much.’” Her voice gets smaller. “He made me feel like wanting things was selfish. He said that my having opinions was exhausting. Like I should be grateful he tolerated my personality instead of asking me to change it.”
The shame in her voice makes me want to break something. “And you believed him.”
“For a long time, yeah. I thought if I could just be less demanding, less intense, less me, then maybe he’d actually be happy.”
“That’s not love, Juliet. What he did to you? That’s not love.”
She looks at me with something fragile in her expression. “I’m still learning the difference.”
