“You seem angry.”

I like my therapist. I started going to him not long after my husband moved out and he even reduced his rate a bit to see me. He never pushes me too hard, or blames everything on my childhood. (I hate that).

And he seems to abhor Dr. Phil as much as I do.

But right now I feel like punching the shit out of him.

“Wow Doc, is that your professional opinion?”

I look out the window and chew on my bottom lip before I have to see him smirk.

I hate when he does that.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

I’ve tried very hard over that past few weeks to stay as even tempered as possible. Even with things going missing and his random “appearances” and the bills getting larger, because I thought he’d be there to help me pay them. (I don’t know why.)

I’m trying to stay calm.

I read somewhere, (Sun Tzu was it?), that anger throws your opponent off their game, makes them lose focus.

I do not want to lose focus.

When we both get to therapy everything will work out.

“No. I’m ok. I’m keeping it together.”

“Explain ‘keeping it together.’”

I sigh and close my eyes, rationalizing that hitting someone whose professional opinion you’re paying for is not a correct response and that if I focus and “observe” my feelings, it will pass.

“I mean that, there’s nothing for me to really be angry over right now, so I’m just rationalizing things one day at a time. Trying to focus on the facts.”

“And what are the “facts?”

I sigh.

“That he has been depressed about being out of work for the past year, that I haven’t always been sensitive to that and that in my panic about needing to work and trying to pay the bills, I think he feels neglected in some way.”

“So you think that the fact that you’re separated is your fault?”

I smirk.

“Isn’t it? Isn’t everything? He certainly seems to think so.” I say sarcastically.

“You get sarcastic when you’re angry.”

Yep. Still wanna punch him.

“I’m not angry. Really. I’m ok!”

I’m  surprised by the volume of my voice.

Judging by his raised eyebrow. He isn’t.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“I’m…” I slam my jaw shut and glare at him because I realize what he’s doing.

And I don’t like it.

After what feels like forever he says, “Why do you feel like the separation is your fault?”

I don’t want to answer that.

I’ve laid awake at night trying to sort it out. I can’t figure out exactly when things started going wrong, but I can say when I noticed it , (over a year ago) but I didn’t press him more than usual about it.

When I would ask him what was wrong he repeatedly would tell me nothing, or that he just needed some space, some time.

I remember making notes in a little notebook about the things he would tell me, (he always complained that I didn’t listen), just to make sure I was doing exactly what he asked. But it never seemed to be the thing he was talking about.

I would jot down the days he was working on projects, or the things he mentioned that he was doing that week, (he complained that I never would remember anything related to his schedule) so that I could bring them up in conversation. But it never seemed to be what he was working on at the time.

When we went out and were around other people, I was to say “our house” and “our car”, (even though they both were technically mine long before I met him), which made sense, because he didn’t want to look like I “owned” him or anything. The few times I slipped up he was pissed.

I wasn’t to interrupt him or speak for him in conversation, (that could make him apoplectic).

I shouldn’t walk ahead of him when we were out, (he couldn’t help me if I needed it).

I even took it upon myself to not talk specifics about the projects I was working on around his friends or family, just so I wouldn’t get that “look”, or so he wouldn’t complain that I was talking too much.

I had added his best friend’s info to our calendar, so that I could always buy flowers for his wife on her birthday or their anniversary, (he really wanted us to be friends). Or buy their children presents on their birthdays. (He’d skipped getting me an anniversary present once, demanding that I buy their 3 year old a flower arrangement even though it was the same day).Yes, really.

I tried really hard to do everything he’d asked. Yes, I thought that some of it was excessive, but I also knew we hadn’t been married that long, (3 years), he’d moved across the country to be with me, (his choice) and that these were just growing pains.

Right?

I had done absolutely everything he’d asked, but as usual, my self-deprecating side just couldn’t let go of the fact that I didn’t do enough. That I’d somehow failed.

On the one hand, I was doing everything and I knew it and part of me resented it, but on the other I felt I’d become this desperate wife trying to do anything to make her husband happy.

To save her marriage.

A woman that I swore I’d never be.

I felt pathetic.

I looked up at the clock in the shrink’s office, gratefully realizing that the 10 minutes left in our session wasn’t enough time to deal with my rapidly plummeting self-worth.

“You’re right Doc. I’m pretty pissed off.”