My therapist, Wyette says she’d like to see me journal more.
So, whatever. I guess I can put more effort into here.
Well, today, because she keeps saying how I need to stop my avoidance behavior, I went and got my taxes done where Brandon and I had them done for a few years. There’s a lady there, Jean. Years ago my Mom went and got her taxes done at Jackson Hewitt, and told me how great it was. Jean was the lady who did her taxes. Mom ended up giving me Jean’s card, because she liked her that much. So next year I went there and had her do my taxes. I liked her too. She’s a genuinely warm and kind person. For the next few years I went there, and eventually, so did Brandon.
Sometime in February, after we were married, we both went there together, and Jean was there. We talked and she found out we just got married, she looked so happy, she of course wished us well, and said that next year when we came in we could file jointly, and that we’d save money. Well, soon after Brandon ended up dead, and the following year around tax time, the thought of seeing Jean made me sick, because I didn’t want to get into what happened with her (here comes in my “avoidance behavior”). So I did what any normal person who wants to avoid something would do, I went and got my taxes done at a different Jackson Hewitt location, far away from Jean.
But Wyette keeps telling me that I should stop avoiding things; that I need to feel whatever feelings there are when I do certain things I’ve been avoiding. So today, I went to where Jean works. Of course, she was there. I didn’t recognize her at first, because she straightened her wild curly hair. But she recognized me and asked how my Mom was. Before she could ask anything about Brandon, the lady who was doing my taxes had some question about how to process a “widowed” return, so she immediately knew Brandon was dead.
I remember sitting there, thinking how I made a mistake coming here, and “please don’t ask, please don’t ask…” She didn’t. She didn’t say a damn thing. No mention or questions about my widowed status. Props to her for being professional. But I saw it. I saw that look. The look of sadness and pity. She had it. She looked at me and she felt sorry for me. That killed me. That look made me want to go and cry. I hate it when people pity me.
I was relieved. I didn’t want to have that conversation with Jean. So I was glad she didn’t say or ask anything. I felt even more relieved when I walked out of the doors. Suddenly I could breathe again. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. By the time I got to the car and got in, I was angry. Why didn’t she ask me what happened? Why didn’t she care? People are usually so damn curious, that the first question I get is “how did he die?” But not with her.
It doesn’t matter. She didn’t ask. What can I do now, go back and ask her why not? That’s just silly.
By the time I drove home, I was over it.
Or so I thought.
I got mad at Will about something stupid tonight. As a result, I opened a bottle of wine. Now I’m kind of drunk and as always, when I drink, my Brandon shit swims to the surface. This is why I couldn’t become an alcoholic, even though I wanted to, right after he died. Drinking always made me feel worse, it made the hurt more acute, more painful. So here I am, half a bottle in, and all this shit swims up. Apparently getting my taxes done and seeing Jean bothered me more than I thought. Thank you, brain, for being a dick. My brain is very good at turning off anything that makes me sad or hurt. Maybe I should be drunk all the time, so I actually feel what it is that I’m feeling, without the brain buffer.
In 12 days it’ll be 2 years since Brandon’s death. Really, 2 years already?
I hate that I got so upset with Will tonight. Over something stupid. Really, Val? It’s a few days from my time of the month, and around this time my hormones are all over the place. So I get irrational. I feel like such an asshole. I love him. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in this new life, and I hate that I got mad over something so stupid.
Maybe I should just finish my wine and go to bed.