San Andreas Island Page 5

  September 18, 2020

  I went to my session with Lauren yesterday. She diagnosed me with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and said I’m a codependent love addict and an enabler. Great. My own therapist knows I’m a mess. For so long I was the classic case of being caught in the high of the fantasy cycle with him from early on. Which means at some point, like with any addiction, I was bound to come down from the high, face reality, and go through withdrawal. Maybe that’s what this is now. I’m detoxing from my fantasy. The euphoric recall is over. I told Lauren how I keep getting panic attacks. It’s all the running around I am doing: working straight through my lunches, cooking, cleaning, taking care of Lily on my own from the moment I wake up until before I go to bed, because Dylan doesn’t want to wake up early and is always “looking for another job” (aka sleeping or hungover). I can’t even take time off or quit like he does every year because he’s just bored with a job, because someone needs to make money to pay our bills. No one’s asking me to change her or bathe her or feed her. Can’t he see that I’m the one paying our bills and taking care of our child and cooking our meals while he sleeps all day and drinks all night, and I clean up after him? He had the nerve to tell me that I’ve been slacking on cleaning the house last weekend, and not doing it like I used to. Seriously?! I need us to be a team. He completely changed after we walked down that aisle. His drive, motivation, being a true partner—all gone. He’s cheated me. Now I feel like we’ve become strangers. No, worse than that— the worst versions of ourselves.

  Lauren suggested I start asking Dylan for help—no shit. Why I didn’t apply that common sense years ago is beyond me. My guess is I was busy trying to be the perfect wife and not let him be uncomfortable. But last night, I decided to take her advice and stop assuming he would just have empathy or be a considerate person. I removed my superwoman cape and asked him to alternate nights we bathed Lily.

  At first, it was sweet hearing the bath water splashing and the giggles between them. I was finally resting on that sofa for the very first time; not working, cleaning, cooking, changing diapers, not doing a single thing. It was heavenly. I closed my eyes, let my body sink into the sofa, and felt such a difference sitting still…even my mind could rest for a bit. I was completely relaxed and motionless.

  But as I sat in the quiet living room finally doing absolutely nothing for the first time, it all hit me. The anger rushed through my body. While I was run around like a chicken with its head cut off, he lives in this luxury of what I so desperately long for: utter relaxation.

  Fuck! I’ve never felt more rage. This is what he does, all day, every day on that very sofa while I’m running servicing his every need in this one-sided relationship, stressed out of my mind, working to pay our bills, go grocery shopping, cook, clean, then do Lily’s bath time and bedtime and he does this: sit and relax all day in his pajamas, complain that I’m not cleaning the house as well as I did in the past.”

  Rage, utter rage. I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t ask to be the breadwinner or his servant.

  My resentment is doing push-ups, growing stronger with each passing day. His drinking has gone from socially on weekends to a couple glasses of Jack and Coke most weeknights. He’s draining our bank accounts with his addictions and gluttony. Of course I can’t say these things. I’d die if I made him feel badly, and I don’t want to fight. He’s my husband, I have to support him, and I know he’s trying.

  I skip more pages.

  ...I know in my gut that Lily is as shy as she is because she feels our tension. She’s still not toilet-trained. Her Christmas program was last night and she stood off to the side completely still. All the other kids were smiling, singing and dancing, and there was our sweet little Lily, not uttering a word or moving an inch, just frozen in her familiar stance: head down, furrowed brows, chewing on her finger, silent. I couldn’t stand seeing her so uncomfortable., so I went up and took her off stage and had her sit on my lap.

  I flip some more.

  ...I wish I can say to him “If you don’t change, I’m leaving.” But I can’t even imagine that. I can’t break up Lily’s home.

  I turn to the last entry, one I wrote a couple months ago.

  April 7, 2023

  I’m livid!! I saw 9 patients back to back today and worked through lunch typing up notes. When I finally got home tonight, I had Lily in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other. He didn’t move his eyes from the laptop, was still in his pajamas from the night before and asks me, “Did you deposit your patient checks from today?” Fuck you, you lazy, selfish mooch! I raged at him in my mind. I wished I could say this to him, but I just can’t.

  Ugg. I have to get out of here. I close my notebook, grab my keys and wristlet.

  ****

  Sunkissed Café is packed, but Sarah and Helen make me feel like we’re the only ones in this place. The Italian music they have playing is soothing my unsettled heart.

  I stir my tea a bit, still frustrated.

  “Babe, are you trying to break the cup?” Sarah teases me. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s better watching you be angry than sad all the time.”

  “You guys, I’m telling you, the most excitement I have in my life is when I’m daydreaming. Remember, when I used to have those wild fantasies?”

  “I’m all ears,” Helen winks at me.

  My anger is slipping away as I visit my mental getaway.

  “How can I forget?” Helen gets a pen out and hands it to me with a napkin. “You’d talk about that retreat so much I still remember the little maps you’d draw on napkins.”

  I take the pen and let my mind float into dreamland for a bit. “There’d be huge open air tents with signs, and little pathways to each of them. A Raw Room, a Focus Room, a Nourish Room. And I’d put a fire pit right here in the middle.” I point my pen to the scribble of flames in the center of the napkin. “And people could play guitar, and paint, and have a safe healthy fun place to go to any time. It would have all the perks of an addiction treatment center, but available to anyone. I’d have paddle-boards hanging on racks and groups could paddle out and do meditation on the water. But now, my dreams are more freaking me out than anything.”

  “What do you mean?” Sarah asks.

  “The other night, I had this vivid dream—a nightmare, I guess. My stalker was on the other side of my front door at home, just standing there pointing a gun in my direction and holding his phone up, taking pictures nonstop. And I had a knife in my hand.”

  Helen puts her hand on my arm. “J, I’m sorry these nightmares are coming back again.”

  “It was pretty bizarre. But the even crazier thing was just now, in session. My patient was talking, and I started to see out of the corner of my eye all these notifications, texts, and photos of me just coming in nonstop on my phone. It was like they came from my dream, my stalker behind the front door with a gun pointed at me and taking photos, and all the photos were coming into my phone right there in the middle of a session! And I had a freaking panic attack and vertigo right there in front of my patient.”

  “That’s a trip,” Helen says.

  “The panic attacks aren’t the worst of it. You guys are going to think I’m crazy, but I think my anxiety is making me hallucinate. I keep freaking out seeing pictures of me when I was in high school. It was the worst time of my life. This is really embarrassing to even say out loud but remember how shy and insecure I was back then? I had such low self-esteem, I cut out all my pictures and basically hid from the world those entire four years.”

  “I think you should think about taking meds,” Sarah says. “They’ve done wonders for me.”

  Helen replies, “No, what she needs is some seriously hot sex.”

  “How's that department going?” Sarah asks, spreading fig on a slice of Brie with a knife.

  I would usually do the same, savoring the sweet and salty taste, but I have no appetite. “Eh. I don’t even think about sex right now. I just need Dylan t
o quit making excuses, stop drinking and keep a job so I can stop burning out.”

  “I thought you guys tried couples therapy?” Sarah asks.

  I roll my eyes. “We tried it once about a few months ago. He didn’t want to go and said it would be a waste of time, but I told him we’re fighting too much and Lily’s definitely feeling our tension and that I just can’t keep living like this. So we went.”

  “Is Lily still having accidents?” Helen asks.

  I nod. “Only on the weekends, never at school. And my therapist says her shyness and separation anxiety is clearly because Dylan and I aren’t ok.”

  “How did the session go when he went with you?” asks Sarah.

  “Pointless. Dylan was annoyed being there and acted like he knew more than my therapist. She asked both of us to say what we each take responsibility for regarding the problems in our marriage. We were both so frustrated, and so busy blaming each other, that she just jumped in and told me that I play the martyr, I’m a people pleaser, and I’m codependent. She said I’m playing the victim and need to take responsibility and have my voice. She told Dylan he acts entitled, is boundary-less, and creates chaos with his addictions, which pushes me away. She said neither of us communicates clearly to the other person, and that he responds to stress by ‘acting out’ and indulging himself, while I respond by ‘acting in’ and neglecting myself.”

  Helen adds, “That's depressing. How about a threesome? Maybe adding some spice will make you both chill the fuck out.”

  “Thanks, that’ll make things a lot less complicated.” I’m rarely sarcastic, but I can’t help myself.

  “Well, all kidding aside, something has to change,” Sarah says. “We love you, J. And you’re just not ok. You’re too skinny, you never eat, you always look exhausted, you work harder than anyone I know. And look, your panic attacks are getting worse, and you’re stressed about money all the time. I’m afraid you’re going to end up in the hospital with a nervous breakdown, or in the grave.”

  “What am I supposed to do? He’s a good guy, we’re not abusing each other. Fine, he drinks too much and isn’t working. But so many people have it worse. I have no choice. I can’t quit my job, we have Lily. This is the life I signed up for, and I have to just deal with it,” I say. They just don’t get it.

  “That’s bullshit. This isn’t the 1950s. You’re never stuck. You always have a choice. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, but you do,” Sarah snaps back.

  I let that sink in for a moment. The very thought of the word divorce in my mind makes me cringe and feel like a complete failure. And there isn’t a concrete reason to actually leave. He isn’t having an affair, he doesn’t abuse me. And there are just so many unknowns, starting with how it would affect Lily. I think about her, then I remember the little girl in my dream.

  “Oh! I remember this other part of my dream!” I’m desperate to change this depressing subject. “I can’t believe I didn’t mention this. There was this little girl sitting on the kitchen floor. She wasn’t Lily, though. She had glasses. She was writing something in a notebook. Anyway, I keep thinking about that her. I think she was at one of the lectures I did at the elementary school last winter.”

  I put my cup of tea down, lean back in my chair, and tie my hair in a low bun. While I’m adding one last bobby pin to secure it, Helen touches the bruises on the backs of my arms with one finger. “What’s this?”

  The blood rushes to my face. My arms drop down and without the last bobby pin in place, my hair loosens a bit. “It’s nothing. Dylan was driving me crazy again, and I just lost my mind.”

  Sarah’s voice rises; she doesn’t care if there’s an audience.

  “What the fuck, J? He did this to you?!”

  I’m mortified. I want to disappear. “What? No! Dylan would never put a hand on me. Ever. I’m so embarrassed. This was me. I can’t hit anyone else or anything else. He just pissed me off again, coming home drunk, and I have to do fucking everything. Everything! I work my ass off all day, cook for him, clean, do his laundry, take care of Lily. And I can’t yell at him in front of Lily, and he was passed out this morning after almost puking on me. Anyway, I dropped her off at school and the second I got back in the car I just lost it and yelled and cried and finally got all my anger out.”

  They both stare at me with shock and sympathy in their eyes. I loathe this feeling. My polished wall is crumbling right before my very eyes. Vulnerability stings like hell.

  “We’re so worried about you, babe. This can’t keep going like this,” Helen says to me.

  Out of nowhere, a strong ocean breeze glides through the room. Everything is moving in slow motion and I’m completely rescued from the intense moment I was just having. My whole body and mind shift into an entirely different gear. Somehow the temperature rises about ten degrees. I’m in a whole other dimension right now, and Helen and Sarah seem to be carrying on their conversation very far away from me. I feel a rush throughout my body, as if someone grazed their hand across my skin, from the top of my face down my entire body, and I’m tingly all over.

  Stunning.

  I hear her voice on the other side of the restaurant. I think I smell her scent, but that can’t be right. My heart’s beating faster, and my palms are sweating.

  The whole place seems to go quiet, and there she is. I thought I’d never see her again. She’s standing in a spotlight in the middle of the restaurant. Every syllable that passes her lips sends a vibration straight down my spine. Her eyes meet mine, and I can’t unlock my gaze.

  Helen waves her hand in front of my face. “Babe, hello? Where are you right now?”

  The room returns to its previous volume, and I see Stunning talking to the entire restaurant staff near the kitchen. Is she the new owner? No wonder she had such a nice car. My hands are shaking, but I’m not nervous. Or maybe I am. I don’t know. I feel high right now. Maybe Sarah slipped some edibles onto the cheese platter without me knowing. My phone chimes—it’s 3:50 p.m. I inhale deeply.

  “I love you guys, but I have to run.” I look in my wristlet for a twenty, but all I have is a five-dollar bill.

  “This one’s on me, ladies,” Sarah says.

  “I’ll pay you back,” I reply.

  The waitress returns, peeking at the check holder before closing it and placing it on the table right in front of me. She sets it down on top of a to-go box. With a smirk, she says, “Have a nice afternoon, Jelina.”

  “Jelina?” Sarah glances at her, leans across the table and grabs the check holder. She looks it over for a few seconds, sits back and smiles. Her elbows rest on the arms of the chair, fingertips holding up what looks like my own blue business card with handwriting scribbled on it. “Well, none of us have to pay a thing, and someone’s got a secret admirer.”

  Sarah hands me my own business card. On the back is handwritten: Jelina, you intrigue me. 8 p.m. tonight: 27 La Brea Ave. Text me when you get there 555-2010. —Natalia xo

  My heart’s racing so fast and I’m warm, and like I’m floating a bit. I feel drunk or high, but so much better. Natalia. Even her name is tantalizing.

  Helen leans over and takes a look at the card. “Who’s this? I like her already.”

  “It’s a long story,” I say. How we met isn’t, but what she makes me feel is. I look around and don’t see her anywhere around the restaurant. I feel stalked, but this time I like it.

  Chapter Eight:

  Don’t Neglect Happiness

  I walk along Ocean Avenue, holding my card between my fingertips. Natalia. She had this between her fingertips just moments ago. I bring it up to my nose and breathe it in, closing my eyes for a second and I smile.

  I hear the guitar guy strumming along, and put my card in my purse. I set the to-go box I brought from the café beside him, and walk up the stairs to my office with a few minutes to spare.

  My call light is on, but I’ll give myself permission to take a mini mental vacation. I have enough t
ime for a short meditation. I take out my phone, lie down on the shag rug, and set the timer for two minutes. I enter my mental Focus Room, hit Start and close my eyes, letting my lips part and rest slightly open. I orient myself to the very present moment, on this very day, in this very room. I can feel my lungs expanding and contracting with every breath, my body being held by the ground and the breeze through the open glass door. I let my mind go where it wants, and each time, pull my attention back to my breath. This mini meditation is my oxygen mask lately.

  The alarm chimes, and I open my eyes and press Stop. My arms stretch over my head, laying flat against the ground. I roll onto my stomach and press up into my mini version of a Vinyasa flow, ending with an inversion—a new pose I’m proud of. As the blood rushes to my head, I return to my feet, and see it’s four p.m., right on the dot. For the next two hours, I step into my patients’ worlds.

  ****

  My last patient leaves, and I close the door behind him. As I type up my note I get a notification on my phone that he’s sent me his payment. I grab my keys and purse and switch off the office light. I stop in my tracks when I remember my card. My heart flutters and I have butterflies in my stomach. I see Natalia’s handwriting. I drop my bag to the floor, grab the card, and sit back in my chair. The only light that’s coming in is the sunset that’s peeking through the blinds of the windows, and a glow from the balcony, with its scenic view of the beach that I never look at when I’m in this office.

  I haven’t studied my business card for this long, not even when I was sent the proofs to comb through for errors before they printed the final version. But here I sit, under the moonlight. Her hands have held this same card. She actually recognized me today. I can’t believe I saw her again. Why does she want to see me? Maybe she wants to file a claim against my insurance for hitting her car. I rub my thumb over her writing.