(As much as I’d like to get all this down in one post, it’s too much. Instead I’ll break it up into more digestible/writable pieces. Yeah.)
A year ago I caught myself stepping out into traffic and subsequently returned to therapy. I’d been unhappy for a while, and sure, my mind occasionally wandered through the bus scenario, but imagining something is a lot different than actually facing off against a bus. The day I came to (the best way I know how to describe it) with one foot off the curb and MUNI bearing down was the day I finally called and scheduled an appointment.
I thought I knew where I needed help. My life had undergone a huge number of changes in a very short time: I’d bought a house, lost my fitness and identity as a bike racer, had (minor, noninvasive) heart surgery. I needed to figure out who I was without the routine I’d developed over the last eleven years, and where I was going. Within a few sessions it became clear that much of what frightened me and made me depressed centered on my relationship. If I can’t ride my bike, I wondered, would my husband still love me? Would he want to be with me?
The short answer is no, he wouldn’t, at least not until he realized he was losing me. Maybe he never really did. Either way, it was too late.