Page 55 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

I bristle, but before I can come up with some bitter retort, he says, “I care about you. I want us to be able to work it out. And I realize that I often say the wrong things, but it’s really because I want to be included. I want to be able to celebrate your achievements, all your publishing news—I feel like you’ve been wanting to keep me apart from that, like maybe you don’t think I care about it, but I do. I really, really do.”

“But you’re always...” The rest of the sentence fades away as I go through our past interactions. Everything he had said or asked that I had seen as a put-down. I’d thought they were moments where he was twisting the knife, but with an awful rush, it hits me now that he was showing genuine interest. He’d asked if he could come to dinner with me and Toni, and it wasn’t because he’d thought I was lying, but because he’d really wanted to partake in what he thought was a celebration of my career.

The realization nearly knocks me over. For as long as I can remember, I stopped seeing him as my ally and started seeing him as the enemy. All of our interactions have been tainted with the purpose of winning, and to win, the other person needs to lose. All of those questions he’d asked about my books, about Toni, about Harvest, hadn’t been because he wanted to be cruel. They’d been because he wanted to be included, and maybe he’s just as awkward as I am when it comes to making conversation, and maybe, yes, I have been interpreting everything he says in the worst possible way.

My eyes start filling again, and I say, more to the floor than to him, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t want to be.” More tears come. “I’m so tired of being myself, Ted. I don’t know what to do! I don’t! I just—”

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. We can talk to someone. Whatever you need.” He wraps his arms around me and murmurs into my hair as I break.

That same night, over a glass of wine, we sit down with my laptop and look up online counselors, because I decided that an in-person session would be too much. My mind is a mess. Part of me wants to do this as quickly as possible, rip offthe Band-Aid before I have a chance to chicken out. If we were to wait until we got back to the Bay Area, I would probably lose my nerve. Years ago, after a particularly bad fight, Ted had suggested that we see a couples counselor, but my whole body had rejected it immediately. My muscles spasmed; my scalp tightened like it was trying to crush my skull. Mom’s voice, whispering at the back of my mind:Therapists are all fakes, making up imaginary problems so people give them money to fix them. You’re either crazy, or you’re normal. If you’re crazy, then you go to a mental hospital. If you’re normal, then deal with your own problems. Why do people insist on wasting money just to have a stranger listen to their problems? Why is your generation so soft?I mentally scream at Mom to shut up, but as soon as she does, another part of me whispers:What if Ted finds out I’m a sociopath?He’d leave me for sure. Days ago, I would’ve said I’m fine with it, but now I realize it would devastate me. Somehow, bolstered by the wine and Ted’s reassurance and the absolute fucking mess I’ve made of everything, I manage to agree to an appointment for the next day.

The following morning, we sit stiffly on the love seat inside our hotel room, my phone propped up in front of us, both of us smiling nervously as the mental health app logs us into our session. The session begins, and the counselor isn’t at all the way I’d pictured counselors to be. She’s in her forties with pink hair, wearing a button-down blouse that shows off the intricate tattoos on her arms. Her appearance disarms me enough that I feel my walls shifting ever so slightly.

“Good morning, Jane and Ted,” she says. Her voice is soothing, like a librarian during story time. “I’m Kathryn. What brings you here today? Jane, would you like to start?”

I stare mutely.

Kathryn smiles reassuringly. “Well, how about telling me a little about yourself?”

Still, I can’t find the ability to speak. Ted squeezes my arm and I flinch.

“Maybe I can start,” he says. Thank fuck, because I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I sit there, half listening as he spills everything, about how fraught our marriage has become, how he feels like I take everything he says as an attack, how on edge we both feel at all times. And with everything he reveals, I feel more and more emotions piling up—frustration, anger, sorrow—leaping from the ether and turning into a giant ball of feelings that I have to fight to hold back.

Kathryn nods like she understands, but she doesn’t. No one does, and how could they? They don’t know the kind of monster I truly am, the sick thoughts crawling like spiders inside my head. “You’d be surprised,” she says, when Ted’s done, “to know that many couples go through the same struggles you do...”

It’s too much. The monster bursts out of me. “No they don’t, because most people aren’t married to sociopaths!”

Kathryn falls silent. Ted stares at me. “Um,” he says after a beat. “I understand that I’ve probably not been the best husband, but calling me a sociopath is a bit much—”

“No, not you,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s me. I’m a sociopath. I’ve done all these tests and it’s what I am. I hid it from everyone else because—I don’t know—I guess I just wanted to fit in, and I’m sorry I tricked you into marrying a monster, but... yeah.”

Ted’s staring at me like I’ve just grown an extra eye.

“Jane,” Kathryn says, “when you say you’ve done tests, do you mean you were tested by a professional and given a medical diagnosis of APD?”

“No. I just—I found tests online—”

“There aren’t any official tests you can take online, as far as I know. What kinds of questions did these tests ask you, do you remember?”

I try to ignore Ted’s stare and recount as many questions as I can. Kathryn nods encouragingly. If she’s judging me, she hides it well.

“Interesting,” she says after a while. “Can I ask you a few questions, Jane?”

I shrug.

“Do you often feel fear that others will judge you for whatever reason?”

“Yes, you definitely do,” Ted says, nodding at me.

Kathryn smiles. “Ted, maybe we can let Jane speak for herself.”

“Sorry.” He deflates.

I don’t even feel satisfaction; I’m too absorbed in what Kathryn just asked me. Slowly, I open up my box of memories, cautiously, as though it’s Pandora’s box. “Uh. Yeah.” My voice comes out soft at first, but the deeper I go into the box, the more I see it. How I’d felt about going to Montauk, the way I felt at SusPens Con, always lost, always an outsider. “Yes. Always.”

Kathryn nods. “Do you have intense fear of interacting with strangers?” When I hesitate, she says, “This fear may manifest itself in different ways that might not seem like fear. For example, on the surface you might feel intense exhaustion, or stress, or in some cases, even anger.”

I find myself nodding along before I even realize it. “Angry, yes. I often feel angry when it comes to other people. But isn’t that anger because of my sociopathy?”

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