Hey, so. Hi. Basically chapters 1-31 were "part one" of the story.

This is now "part two." Hate-readers need not continue!

I split this chapter so I'll see you Monday, if you're still with me! Thanks for reading :3

32
Part Two
- unlearn -

I cry for what feels like days; weeks.

I cry more than I ever did during my year split from Edward.

Maybe that's because I had resentment guiding me before. With anger, comes hope. Now I have nothing.

I still work, but I exist in the most basic sense and do the bare minimum with my shoots because as much as I want to completely crumble, I still need an income.

This loneliness isn't unfamiliar—it's how I spent the last year of my life.

It feels different than before though.

I'm not waiting for Edward to show up and sweep me off my feet.

I'm not waiting for him to call or text.

I'm not getting drunk and anticipating our next midnight fight.

There's less hope now.

Less expectation.

Less to cling onto.

Everything is just... less.

But in a weird, awful, confusingly cathartic way this is good.

Being on my own is good.

Focusing on fixing myself feels less daunting when I don't have a marriage to focus on fixing as well.

Knowing I'm not holding Edward back or tying him down is devastating but also good.

Not drinking has been helpful for me, too. It's tempting, but I'm sad enough. I don't need that depressant anymore. I don't need that poison twisting my thoughts and muddling my mind.

So I drown in my loneliness in a way I never have before—fully, and without a numbing agent.

I mourn.

I mourn the death of my marriage.

For Edward—the man who committed his life to me and now has to envision a new future.

I mourn for myself—the woman who said "I do" at such a young age and believed it.

There are so many nights I want to run back to him. And knowing I could—knowing he's just a drive away instead of a plane ride's distance—is tempting, too.

But I don't.

There was a point during our goodbye when we were clinging to each other and crying, and I swear… I swear I felt a sense of relief from him. It was palpable.

It's that feeling, that instinct, that bone-deep truth that keeps me from asking him to push through. To wait for me to figure my shit out.

He's done enough.

He did all he could.

I just want him to be happy. He deserves that.

In my heartbreak, I play a sick game where I imagine him meeting someone new and falling in love. It makes me ache in the worst way.

Now he can find someone who worships him and can give him everything he ever wanted.

Like a fresh start.

And a baby.

The idea of him one day being a father to a child that isn't mine sends me into a depression worse than I've ever felt.

September comes and goes.

I Google nearby clinics and book an upcoming appointment as a new patient because I don't think I can do this—living, existing, moving on—without a little help from Zoloft.

Happiness feels so far away, and I worry I'll never be truly content without Edward.

But was I happy with him?

I don't know.

I don't know who I am without him.

But I didn't know who I was with him either.

I'm a fucking contradiction.

My identity is a mess.

Everything is a mess.

Every day my head is filled with Edward.

It's a side effect of separating from a man I still love.

What's he doing?

What's he thinking?

Has he told his family we're splitting?

Has he told anyone?

Oh, God—is he dating?

Already sleeping with half of LA?

Because why wouldn't he? He's the new face of SportsCenter. He's got this glitzy new life. I'm the dulled part of his story.

I'm the one who convinced him we're better off apart. I don't think he would've come to that conclusion on his own. I think he would've kept fighting and fighting until we were bloody and lifeless.

His loyalty is honorable.

It's a side effect of loving a woman who was broken long before he met her.

For a while, he healed me.

For a while, I let him.

But the thing about being emotionally fucked-up is that the work needs to be done by yourself. Other people can't do it for you. I know that now.

I wish that weren't true.

Wish I would've sought help sooner.

Wish I would've been less insecure and more introspective when I started twisting my jealousy into desire.

I often think about those early days, the ones after I confessed my secret kink to Edward. He was so unsure at first. So worried to upset me when our dirty talk started to involve other women. He was always checking in, always watching my face, always so aware.

And then one day he wasn't.

But maybe that was because I coaxed him into it and gave him no indication that my kink was anything deeper.

I think about Maria a lot, too. I don't even know why. I want to talk to her. It's a strange urge I can't shake, but it feels like something I need to do. She knows my husband in a way I don't. When I left, he confided in her and leaned on her. He slept with her friend. There are things I need to know. To hear. And Maria is the only one who can answer them.

I don't reach out to her though.

I stall.

I tell myself I'm gaining courage, giving my heart time to not feel so bruised and raw, but I don't know if that's true.

I look into therapy, but it's daunting.

I book and cancel four appointments with four different therapists.

Committing to that feels too big. Too difficult. Deciding to sit in a room and have someone listen to my problems and all the ways I'm fucked up feels overwhelming and scary.

I give myself a deadline, though—October 10th. My 34th birthday.

I tell myself I have to at least book and commit to one therapy appointment by then.

I tell myself if I do that, I can reach out to Maria.

Talking to her might pick the scab, but if making things worse will make things better, then I'll gladly bleed.

XXX

The day before my birthday, I go to my first therapy appointment with Jane.

I'm anxious all morning. Nauseous from too much coffee which results in zero appetite.

I think about canceling, but I don't.

I play another game with myself—what's the worst that can happen?

Well. I could bare my soul to the therapist, tell her every ugly truth that lives inside of me, and she can blame me. Be on everyone's side. Join the fucking club.

It's my fault, my fault.

But is that likely?

No.

What's the best that can happen?

I can face my shit. Heal. Become a better version of myself. Learn to trust. To forgive.

I show up with one minute to spare, and Jane calls me into her office almost immediately, giving me zero time to back out.

I stall when she opens up the conversation by asking why I'm here.

Why am I here?

"I guess the better question is why haven't I started therapy sooner?" I ask rhetorically. Jokingly, but not.

She laughs lightly. And then she grows quiet again. Waiting.

I start with what's at the forefront of my mind.

"My marriage is over."

I say it, out loud.

The words hang in the air.

They coat me with their truth, their pain.

Jane nods. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Me too. He deserves better."

"And why do you think that?"

"It's not just me who thinks that. His sister said it, too," I add, realizing I referred to Allie as his sister, not my friend.

Jane stays stoic. "Do you care what other people think?"

"Doesn't everyone?" I ask, but she doesn't answer me.

"Do you want your marriage to end?" She asks it so casually that I believe if I said yes, I wouldn't feel judged by her.

My eyes sting with tears, but I blink them away.

She notices the sudden emotion but doesn't remark on it. I like that about her.

When I feel like I'm able to speak without breaking down, I do.

"No," I finally say. "But I know it's for the best. I can't… focus on anything but him. There's shit I need to work through and…" I pause, not comfortable enough to get into everything just yet. "We split up for a year. I mean, technically I left him, but he was all I thought about."

"You feel like you need to break apart from him to focus on yourself," she reiterates.

"Yeah."

"Why can't the two coexist? Why do you feel you can't focus on yourself and stay married?"

"I don't know."

"Take your time."

"All I know is that for the first time in a long time, it doesn't feel so hard to breathe," I guiltily admit. "Our marriage felt tainted. We saw each other at the end of August and it was intense."

"Intense how?"

"Just... a lot of hurt between us. We broke each other's trust in different ways. It felt like I was unable to see past it, and he just wanted it all behind us without acknowledging it. I don't know."

"That's okay. You don't have to know. That's what I'm here for, to help you work it out. Now tell me more about you. What defines you?"

A loaded silence overwhelms the room.

I blank.

"Me?"

Jane's smile is sympathetic as I search for the answer.

My cheeks burn and I stare at my hands.

"You paused. Where did your mind go?" she asks gently.

I shrug, refusing to look at her. "I don't know. All of it is… kind of weird. Embarrassing."

"What's embarrassing?"

I take too long to say, "Being here? Admitting I need help?"

"What do you think you need help with?"

"Being normal? Accepting love? Not being insecure? Trusting others? I don't know."

When I meet her eyes she says, "I don't think anything is embarrassing about that. I think it's empowering, deciding to change your course and being confident enough to ask for guidance."

With her encouraging words, I answer her question and tell her I don't know what defines me.

"That's okay. We can work on that, too," she easily says. "You said you have trouble accepting love. Can I ask when was the last time you felt truly cared for?"

"By who?"

"Anyone. Anytime."

I think and think and think.

And then I tell her all about Edward.

Only Edward.

I let him go.

He's the only person I've ever felt loved by, and I fucking let him go.

Jane gives me space to cry.

To mourn, yet again.

When my tears have slowed and I've blown my nose too many times to count, she asks, "When was the last time you felt loved by yourself?"

I pick at the skin around my thumb. "I—uh." I shift uncomfortably. "Is it sad if I say I don't know if I ever have?"

"Is it true?"

I nod just barely, and she mentally files this away. I like that she doesn't take notes. Doesn't ask how that makes me feel.

Because it makes me feel shitty.

Sad.

It makes me feel worthless, but I'm here and it's empowering, I guess.

It's a start.