Flaws and Flowers

I was feeling good before therapy. I was early so I went to the bakery, bought a cinnamon roll for me and gingerbread cookies for the kids. Wandered by a flower shop and was taken by the miniature orchids. I love orchids and their delicate little clits, but I always kill them. I fuss over them too much and they get overwatered or not enough humidity or they can feel that I’m apprehensive so they die to mock me.

But I’ve been growing. And doing much better with succulents and plants that need to be left alone. It was a sunny day and I felt hopeful, so I bought myself a pretty little orchid baby on a whim. “I can do this!” I said to myself, quieting the nagging voice in the back of my head that told me to maybe, possibly, just accept my limitations.

I put my goods in the car and then went to my session. It was painful. We didn’t talk about my husband, or the separation, or my father, or the pandemic, we talked about me. She asked questions I couldn’t answer. I was agitated. She focused on my perfectionism, my reluctance to ask for help, my discomfort with my own flaws and inabilities. I started to sweat and shift in my seat. “I wonder where you got this idea that you had to be good at everything? That it was unacceptable not to be competent,” she mused in that slow thoughtful way therapists do, but it irked me, she knows the answer. “My father, next question,” I quipped, knowing it was defensive. “Hmm,” she said and looked down at her notes.

I fucking hate therapy. I hate looking at everything under a microscope. I hate peeling back the bandaid and looking at what’s underneath. I hate the scrutiny and feeling like I’m being misunderstood. It was too nice outside to sit here sweating while I’m picked apart.

It felt like a dressing down, “everything you do is about offering care, but you can’t ask people to care for you?” I wanted to scream. It’s not that simple. I like caring, nurturing is my gift, it’s not me sacrificing it’s me using my powers. I’m no martyr. And I have been asking for help, I’ve had to. I even asked Max to come over on the weekend to help the kids and I rake the leaves and get the gardens ready for winter. I could have done it alone but it would have been really hard, but instead it was fun and easy. She was happy to pitch in, and had a great attitude, and did all the jobs involving a ladder because my ankle is still not fully healed. I didn’t need the help, I wanted it. And I asked. And I got it. I wanted to jump on the defence and remind her that until recently I wasn’t blessed with good helpers. You learn real quick to stop asking for help when someone makes you wish you hadn’t.

She ended our session 10 minutes early. That pissed me off too. I know I wasn’t being productive and it was too hot and I don’t blame her for watching the clock and moving things along. I tried not to stomp down the stairs or slam the door. I wanted to break something, the indignity of my flaws weighing heavily on my shoulders. Why do I insist on making things harder for myself?

I bee-lined to my car and stopped short when I saw the fucking orchid in the back seat. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting symbol of my fucking inability to accept my short-comings. I wanted to yeet that fucking flower pot off a cliff. Fuck.

Instead I brought it home and put it on the mantle. Maybe I’ll kill it, maybe I won’t. But I’ll enjoy it while it’s here. And I’ll do my fucking best.