Page 71 of I Think Olive You

“May I be frank with you? And possibly unprofessional? Because I don’t know if you’re going to come back.”

“Sure, doc. Go ahead.” Lay it all out for me.

“You’ve grown up in an environment of neglect and abandonment that you’ve blamed on yourself your whole life because none of the adults took accountability. When your father died it was just another kind of abandonment, but this time you weren’t to blame and you didn’t have the tools to deal with a grief you didn’t want to feel. Mourning someone who hurt you felt like a betrayal to yourself. He didn’t deserve your grief and you couldn’t control that feeling, so you shoved it down and what came back up was different—pointed inward.”

Swallowing hard, my Adam’s apple bobs in my throat, impossibly thick.

“That cycle of internal blame is hard to break. So, when something profound came in to disrupt the only constant feeling in your life, you may have felt out of control. Hence the panic, hence the voice trying to blame and shame you at every turn. You’ve been trying to regain an environment you’re familiar with even though it’s a harmful one.”

Out of control is a pretty apt descriptor for how I’ve been feeling, especially when my body betrays me.

“You could have come clean in Italy and told the truth. But you wanted to avoid failure—avoid feeling like you were a disappointment and it was all your fault. You didn’t want to be left again. So, you lied. And as those relationships grew you kept lying, even though you knew it could only end badly. Because that’s the default: badly. You’re in this pattern of self-destruction and blame because that’s your comfort zone.”

Pritchard pauses, watching me, waiting for the words to sink in. It takes my mind a minute to catch up and process what she’s listing out. It resonates. Hard. I’ve never thought about it this way or known how to talk about it. Now she’s cataloging my whole life in such clear terms I feel stupid for not realizing it sooner.

“I just want to fix it. I want to go back and change everything and never be in this place. Because it fucking sucks. My whole life feels alien to me. I don’t know where I fit anymore. I wanted Italy. I wanted Giuliana and stability and family and joy. I’d never had that—never even realized how badly I needed it until I found it there.”

Pushing a box of tissues toward me, she nods and I realize I must be crying. My face is wet. When did that happen?

“And I can’t. I can’t do any of those things.” The words are shaky, broken up by little catches from my crying.

“Now you’re dealing with your grief, for real. Not pretending it doesn’t exist. You’ve allowed yourself to feel for them, to care and love, and grieving that kind of loss is hard. The feelings you ignored around your father are coming back up and it’s compounding. It’s going to take time.”

I sniff, wipe the hot salt from my cheeks. “What can I do? I can’t change the situation but what can I do about the mess inside of me? I don’t want to be like this. I’m so tired of feeling like this. I hate my brain and it hates me, and that can’t be what the rest of my life is going to be like, right?”

“You can come here and put in the work by sorting through your feelings and finding healthy coping mechanisms. You mentioned a writing degree. You could try and journal to untangle some of what you’re feeling, and face it. Fear and avoidance aren’t a good combination when it comes to healing.”

I could try and journal.

Journal.

My journal. Fuck. It’s in that desk drawer, in Italy.

Pritchard’s still talking though so I force myself to tune back in despite the flare of dread shooting through my body at the thought.

“You chose to help that family, despite what was on the line for you. Knowing it would have made you look like a ‘failure’ according to your father’s supposed clause, you did it anyway. You’re already trying to break the cycle and become the person I think you want to be deep down.”

I can do nothing but nod.

“So, homework for next week. Ask to see that will and the clause, get a second opinion. You don’t need to punish yourself for doing the right thing, even if you went about it the wrong way. And maybe try to write a little, get it out of your head. Okay?”

“Okay.” I can do that. I should do that. Even if I get nothing from the will, at least I can say I tried and fought.

“Next week, same time then.”

Rising from my seat, I push out of the chair and try to ignore the scrape of it against the wooden flooring.

“See you, Dr. Pritchard.”

“Robin. You can call me Robin. Take care of yourself, Matt.”

My mind races, trying to think of where to start to settle back into a body that’s been working against me for a while now. First in panic and now in apathy. I pause in the doorway—my hand wrapped around the knob and turn back. “I’d prefer Matteo actually.”

She gives me a smile and a nod. “Take care, Matteo.”

Robin’s given me a purpose, at least a short term one. There’s so much to sort through, so many questions I need to ask myself. Firstly, why I haven’t mourned my dad and how that’s been affecting me.

So, I’ll start there, with him. With the will and my part in it.

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