Mac
“Do you think perhaps, Mac, that your mother abandoning you after you were born might be the source of your feelings of worthlessness?”
I swallowed hard at the question. Session two of therapy, and while I’d found it easier to open up about the past this time, I still grappled with Iona’s probing questions. “Possibly.”
Iona leaned forward slightly. “You’ve developed what we call a negative thought pattern. Part of the work I do here is cognitive behavioral therapy. An element of that is learning to recognize negative thought patterns and then help you turn them into positive thoughts. You see, your brain is wired to turn a problem or incident in your life into ‘your fault.’ And surely you know, Mac, that your mother leaving you was not your fault. You were a baby.”
“She didn’t love me enough to stay,” I answered gruffly.
“Not your fault,” Iona repeated. “And her loss. As for your dad, from what I can tell, you had a fairly close relationship with him, despite his addiction.”
“That’s true. We tried our best to help him kick his heroin habit, but nothing ever worked with any permanence. He couldn’t stand the withdrawals. Even so young, I woke up every morning prepared to find him dead. And that’s exactly what eventually happened.”
“And how do you feel about his addiction?”
“What do you mean?”
“What were your feelings toward him?”
Confused, I shrugged. “I loved him. I was sad for him.”
“And? Remember, you can say anything here, Mac.”
“I … what does it matter? He’s dead.”
“It matters.”
Heart beating a little too hard, I glanced out the window toward the river.
“Be honest with yourself.”
“Honest?” I clenched my teeth and then looked at her, irritated she was forcing me to say it. “Honestly? I was raging at him.” The words echoed around the room and came back to smack me in the face with guilt.
Iona nodded in understanding. “Can you tell me why?”
“B-because …” I heaved a sigh. “This … och, it isn’t rational, and I know it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Feelings don’t always need to be rational, Mac, and rarely are in my experience. Why were you furious at him?”
“Because I wasn’t enough,” I bit out, tears after all these bloody years burning my fucking eyeballs. “I wasn’t enough to make him kick the habit. To stay. He left me just like she left me. But I know that isn’t fair. I know he couldn’t help himself.”
“Hold on to that.” She leaned in again. “Because that last part is the truth. As much as you feel abandoned by him, addiction is a disease, and he didn’t leave you because he wanted to. Did he tell you he loved you, Mac?”
I nodded, the tears falling before I could stop them. Embarrassed, I wiped swiftly at them. “All the time,” I choked out. “He said it all the time.”
“Then believe him over his addiction. He loved you. He didn’t want to leave you.”
He didn’t want to leave me.
He didn’t want to leave me.
He. Didn’t. Want. To. Leave. Me.
“From the moment your friends assaulted Craig, you tried to stop them?”
After all these years, I could still hear the pounding of feet and fists, of grunts, aggressive taunts and the egging each other on. Cutting through it all was the sound of Craig begging them to stop. “Tried and failed.”
Iona tilted her head and studied me in that way I’d grown accustomed to. “Did you want to kill Craig?”