Page 30 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

Once the idea has marinated in my mind for a few more minutes, I open the laptop and start typing.

I smile as I tap out sentences about all of the mildly infuriating habits Ben had and how annoying it is to realize how much I miss them.

I share all the little things I’ve learned about myself, too, and how I imagine he would’ve missed these bits of me had the circumstances been flipped.

This essay is a love letter to our imperfections.

I’m sending you something new. If you hate it, just use the one you have. If you love it, put the other one in the bank , I text Danny.

I paste in a link to my Google Doc and, as is my habit, type my preferred title into the subject line: I Need to Be Honest About My Dead Husband. Interestingly, the pull quote for the piece is more sentimental than usual, especially given the comical tone of the piece.

What version of our loved ones do we remember when they’re gone? Do we remember the martyrs or the men? I don’t know about you, but for me it’s the messy, perfectly imperfect real person who left the fridge door open all the time. I miss that guy.

I love it , Danny texts twenty minutes later. Makes me miss my mom so much. This is going to hit people right in the feels.

For the second time, a conversation with Josh has inspired a column. The last one was a smashing success, and this one feels just as strong. This thing he and I have? It works.

—

A few hours later, I’m deep into a late-afternoon session with Dr. Lisa.

We spent the first thirty minutes of our hour together talking about the essay I wrote.

I was floating on a high at the start of the session.

The mix of how much I loved the new essay draft paired with Danny’s quick positive feedback after reading it made me feel invincible.

Enter Dr. Lisa to quickly burst that bubble.

“Interesting. I can’t wait to read the final product,” she said, before pausing and adding, “but can we maybe talk for a bit about some other feelings of anger that you might be holding on to since Ben died? Maybe even anger you have toward him?”

She tried this conversation a few months after Ben died, and I absolutely refused to entertain it.

I wasn’t mad at my dead husband. Ridiculous.

She pushed on it, and I almost considered finding a new therapist but came to my senses quickly.

There is no one else I can imagine having these sorts of conversations with.

Now, nearly a year later, I realize that she’s got a bit of a point about the whole repressed-anger-toward-the-dead-husband thing.

“You’ve been waiting for me to be ready to have this conversation, haven’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer. She gives me her classic therapist smile—it’s devoid of actual emotion—but she still acknowledges I’m right with a nod of her head.

“I wrote a chapter last week that was really heavy. It’s titled ‘I’m Mad.

’ It’s an airing of every grievance that I’ve had over the last year.

I’m mad that I’m a single parent. I’m mad that I rarely have time to myself.

I’m mad that people want me to get back to normal.

I’m mad that they don’t want me to live my life.

I’m mad that dating sucks so hardcore. I’m mad that everyone feels bad for me.

I was three thousand words deep into being mad before I finally typed it: I’m mad at Ben.

I’m mad that he didn’t do so much as a virtual doctor’s appointment when he felt unwell.

I’m mad that he pushed himself so much at work.

I’m mad that he didn’t have beneficiaries listed on his life insurance, which meant me hacking through all kinds of red tape for months .

I’m mad that he fucking died. I’m mad that my perfect little life got blown up.

But I’m also embarrassed. I’m embarrassed that this revelation happened a year late because I wasn’t strong enough to deal with it before. ”

“Gracie, you’re allowed to be mad, but you should not feel embarrassed. You’re dealing with it now precisely because you’ve been so strong. Your mind and body knew exactly what to compartmentalize to keep you sane.”

It’s not easy to be mad at someone you can’t fight with, who can’t present their side of the story, and who isn’t there to offer or receive forgiveness.

I’ve often wondered if any of the tics I’ve had over the last year have been about me trying desperately to hold this anger in.

All I know is that every time a tic starts, it feels like the only thing protecting me from the worst truths of my life.

To address my emerging, but definitely-not-handled, recognition of these emotions, we spend time discussing strategies for fully processing the anger. She also acknowledges that writing it out like I did is probably the best first step in healing this particular wound.

We’ve covered a lot today. I’m absolutely wasted. It’s been one of our most intense and productive sessions so far but also really hard. I’m a few seconds from asking her if we can call it quits, when she jumps in to continue on a different line of reflection.

“You are coming into a phase of real emotional bravery, Gracie. This is an important time for you. You may find it easier to open your heart to people and opportunities in your life.”

“What does that mean, really?”

“Gracie, you told me once that your son likes superhero comics. So you’re probably familiar with the concept of a canon event.

It’s something that a superhero goes through that defines who they are and are meant to be.

When a canon event happens, there is fundamentally no going back to the old life—the superhero has to make the decision to carry on into the new world and to become a new version of themselves. ”

“Emotional bravery, canon event—it all makes sense, Dr. Lisa. These aren’t complicated topics,” I tell her, “but I feel like you’re dancing around something here, and I want to give you permission to just say it.”

“Gracie, your canon event—Ben’s death—closed your heart, but I believe you are entering a period where you might be ready to be emotionally brave in matters of love.

In our last session, you told me that you like having Josh around the house and that you enjoy his company. Did you think any more about that?”

I want to lie. I want to tell her that there’s no there there.

Josh is just a decent guy who hangs around the house and occasionally makes me laugh.

The truth is that there is something about Josh and about the way that I feel when he’s around.

The moment at the door after dinner last night only underscored how I feel about things.

“I have thought about it. A lot, actually,” I share.

“Just today I told him that I like having him at the house. It definitely seems like something could be there, but we’ve had those intense moments when he could have said something or expressed interest and he didn’t.

He’s making a choice, and that choice is friendship—and I’m okay with that because this friendship is important to me. ”

“Maybe he’s leaving the ball in your court, given a perceived fragility around your situation.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t see me as a romantic partner.”

“That’s possible. Perhaps you’re afraid of the potential rejection? But really, what’s the worst-case scenario?”

“Well, I could ask him out, he could say no, it could get really uncomfortable, and then I spend the rest of the summer hiding in other rooms while he’s working in the house.”

“Is that really the worst-case scenario?” she asks.

Dr. Lisa is not messing around today. She is calling me on my shit and taking no prisoners. Why do I feel like she really has been waiting a year for me to be ready to play hardball?

“You think there is a scenario worse than rejection?” I answer, throwing the question back into her court.

“I think the worst-case scenario is that you end the summer having potentially let a love story pass you by,” she says so directly that it almost knocks me over.

With that, I hear her quiet alarm chime in the background to let us know the session is over and she needs to prepare for the next client.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about today,” I say, ready to be off this call.

“Gracie, I have just one homework request for you: be brave.”