After a lot of waiting and one failed attempt, he had his first therapy session last night. I could tell he was all nerves on Sunday night, and I left work early to go with him.
We got there early and he filled out his forms in the waiting area. Unlike every other time we’re waiting for something, he didn’t sit right beside me, opting to sit diagonally from me. I tried to not read too much into his seating choice. I know that they were just the standard demographic info that a healthcare provider needs, but I couldn’t help the brief flicker of concern for what he could be writing that he didn’t want me to see.
After he got called in for his session, I tried to read a battered copy of Smithsonian magazine. I switched between reading about fossilized triceratops’ footprints and scrolling on my phone. Fifty minutes later and he emerged from the back, stopped at the window, and scheduled another appointment in two weeks.
I’ve been a ball of emotions since we got home last night. I restrained myself from asking anything about the session other than asking if it went ok. “She’s nice,” he told me. “She asked me how I felt and I told her that I haven’t talked to anyone for that long in months.” If I’m being completely honest, that stung. It hurt that there’s things he can’t talk to me about. I felt like I lost him a little, an almost jealous feeling. He can go to someone else and talk for an hour about how he feels. If I ask what’s going on in his head, he tells me how he’s ok, maybe a little anxious.
I want to be the person he can talk to again, like we were in the past. While I understand that I can’t and shouldn’t be the only person he can go to with a problem, I miss that feeling.
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