I force a laugh. “You must think I’m horrible.”
“Nothing you’ve shared makes you a horrible person. You’re human, Jenna. Just trying to figure it all out like the rest of us. But you will get through this.”
I try to believe her and let it all in. The pain, fear, vulnerability, even a glimmer of hope.
Later that day, I needed a break from inner turmoil. So I called the one person who could lighten things up. Izzy. Jacob’s at some work promotion party while the kids are fast asleep upstairs.
She comes straight over and makes herself at home, slouched on my couch with a glass of wine she poured herself.
“So, guess what?” I begin, sinking into the couch with her. “My therapist wants me to try meditation again.”
Izzy’s head jerks up. “Wait. Hold up. Did you just start a sentence with ‘My therapist told me'? Jenna Anderson-Carter, is that growth I’m hearing? Meditating? Sharing your feeeeeelings? Who are you, and what the hell have you done with my emotionally constipated best friend? And I’m not going to say I told you so, but I told you this months ago.
I roll my eyes, laughing. “Relax, it’s not that deep, and definitely not glamorous. I sat there for seven torturous minutes while my brain opened every tab imaginable.”
Izzy snorts, nearly spilling her wine. “Oh, honey, your brain staying quiet longer than a millisecond? Impossible.” She nudges me. “But I’m proud of you. It’s about time you finally open up to someone other than me.”
I smirk, reaching for my own glass. “Thanks! Seriously, it’s hard turning my thoughts into words, not only to a stranger but to myself. Sometimes it’s as if my brain speaks a foreign language.” I laugh and point to Izzy, declaring, “It’s way easier to talk to you!”
Izzy smiles. “Well, I’m probably the worst person to take relationship advice from. But if you need sex advice? I’ve got you covered.”
“Okay, last night I was in a cowgirl position,” I say quietly. “When there was this, like, POP….”
Izzy’s eyes widen in excitement. “Do tell! I haven’t heard anything pop besides wine bottles in at least a week.”
“Focus, Izzy. I’m kidding. Therapy conversation, remember?” I throw a pillow at her.
“Sorry, please go on. But if anything popped, you would tell me, right?” she says, grinning with her gorgeous smile.
“Yes, of course,” I hesitate, and then let more words spill out. “Jane basically said I’ll never figure out if I should stay or go until I figure out who I am and focus on myself. Because if I don’t know who I am, how the hell will I know what I want?”
She looks at me, less surprised than I expected. Guess I’ve hinted at our marriage problems enough times. “So… whoareyou, Jenna?”
I shrug, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I don’t know. If I knew that, I wouldn’t be in this stupid predicament. I’m a mother, a wife, an abandoned daughter, a business owner, a shitty cook. I’m Jenna fucking Jinx.”
“No, those are your roles and parts of your personality,” she explains. “Who are you to the core? If you lost your job, your family, or you finally learned how to cook.” She smirks. “What would be left? What’s deep inside you that no one can take away?”
“Who am I without those roles? Someone who loves hard, even when it hurts. Someone who craves creativity and making something out of nothing. Someone curious about the world, always searching for meaning in books, music, and connections.” I pause. “Shit, Izzy, I think you found your career path.”
“Oh really, what’s that?” Izzy asks, confused.
“A therapist!”
“Yeah, sure. Maybe a sex therapist. Izzy, the sex therapist." She winks. "I like the sound of that!”
“I do too, Iz. You’d make the best damn sex therapist this town has ever seen. You know what else my therapist suggested? Taking a mini getaway with no kids, no husband. Only time alone to learn more about myself in nature. But you have to come, of course. So, I was thinking… You. Me. Lots of wine. Sex talks. Arrington Wineries?”
“Stop right there!” Izzy bounces in her seat, practically knocking over her glass. “You had me at ‘lots of wine.’”
“Have I ever told you how much I fuggen love you?” I say, planting a kiss on Izzy’s cheek.
“Every dang day.” She grins. “But this shrink stuff. Should I try it out? Work on my mommy-daddy issues?”
“I’m not going to lie, it’s not magic. Most of the work happens outside of that one hour when I try to apply whatever we talk about. And it’s slow. Painfully slow, but I can honestly say I’ve gone from loathing every part of myself to starting to like who I am again.”
I share this with Izzy, hoping to convince her to consider therapy and to remind myself of the progress I’ve made.
“That’s fucking amazing. Therapy sounds like eating ice cream every day. Nothing happens right away. But eventually—boom, I’ve got a juicier ass,” she teases. “And fifty pounds of more love, right?”
