Page 55 of The Cowboy's Cabaret

Unknown:

What the fuck kind of daughter ignores her father

Unknown:

You’re just like her, you know. A fuckin worthless bitch

Unknown:

Have you managed to trap some poor sap yet? He’ll realize soon enough you and your bitch mom are all the same

Unknown:

Happy birthday Sandy

Who the fuck is Sandy?

Throwing my phone, I fall back against my pillows and pull the blanket over my head without responding to the harassing texts from my dad, and with nothing to say to Wes. Yet another reason to feel like shit, I squeeze my eyes closed tight and hope for the peace of sleep soon.

FORTY-TWO

therapy: a psychological assbeating

Wesley

Something is wrong with Dahlia,but no matter how many times I ask, she promises she’s fine. I don’t want to push, but I also hate to think she’s pulling away.

Could she be rethinking our relationship? Fuck, that would be some shit. Fall in love with the one person who truly sees you only to lose them because they wised up. Probably serves me right. I’m so desperate to love and be loved, I rushed her into this and I’ll lose her because of it. I shake my head and continue the backbreaking work of pruning infected branches in the orchard.

Normally, the monotony of the work would lull me to a sense of peace, but every clip of the branches shatters the illusion of contentment I lost myself in. I’m really good at talking Dahlia out of her anxiety spirals, but when it comes to my own shit, I indulge. I feed the thoughts and let them take root in my mind. It’s not healthy and sure as shit isn’t productive, but it’s starting to matter to me less and less.

The cold November air is biting as I wander back to the side by side to drive to the cabin. I check my phone only to be met with my screensaver—a picture of Dahlia and I kissing. I remember this picture. It was from a time I brought her an iced matcha and croissant in the early hours of the day. She was so surprised when she opened her door to me, but when she said she’d been up late working on her thesis, I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to bring her a treat. It’d been three days since I’d been with her and I was craving her touch.

When I reach my cabin, I force myself to take a breath—a real, deep breath—and pause. I can tell I’m spiraling and if I don’t stop it now, who’s to say it won’t continue on into the weekend when I’m supposed to see Dahlia.

I grip the steering wheel with whitened knuckles and recall the many times I’ve put off reaching out to my therapist. Shaking my head, I let the frustration and surrender wash over me. Thankfully, my therapist has a message portal and he told me to reach out anytime. The only barrier to getting help again would be my stubborn ass.

Each daythis week brought me closer to seeing Dahlia, yet I couldn’t feel further from her if I tried. My therapist, Justin, was kind enough to get me an appointment today and I’m nervous to see him again. He doesn’t make me nervous—he’s an older, kinda rugged guy—but the idea of restarting feels unfamiliar. I log onto the virtual appointment and his booming voice comes through my speakers.

“Wesley, welcome back. While I’m sorry to hear you’re having a hard time, I’m proud of you for recognizing it was time to reach out. Bring me up to speed.”

I start at the beginning: the concert and meeting Dahlia, the shit with Jasper, falling in love so hard my teeth ache.

“I’m happy for you, Wes. Love is a beautiful thing to experience, but the influx of emotions can leave us feeling a little vulnerable. It sounds like you’ve been distracted with all the good, but as things have slowed down, the thoughts didn’t really go away?”

“I guess so. I was doing real well. I hadn’t thought about Dad or any of that shit in forever, felt like I was doing something right. Then I met Dahlia and it was like everything in my world glittered with her. You know, she’s got her own struggles too, but I can’t help but feel like she’s pushing me away. Shitty as it may be, she was a big factor in how well I was doing, I think.”

“That’s common in new relationships. The excitement floods us and we get relief, but sometimes the relief is a mask. Remember when we talked about the mask you wear? Could it be this relationship is another mask?”

I think about what he says. We used to talk a lot about how I personified the silly, carefree guy to avoid anyone knowing how broken I felt. His words now are confusing me though. “How do you mean?”

“Could you be using Dahlia and your relationship as the source of your happiness? A good partner is a wonderful thing, but it’s by no means an anti-depressant.” He pauses and I gotta say I’m not loving where this is going.

“Don’t misread my meaning of the word ‘using’. Dahlia is serving a purpose to bring you joy, when that’s not something you innately find in yourself all the time. It’s a fine line to walk and by the way you’re talking about her, you don’t want to use her as your emotion moderator. This is good self-awareness, Wes. I don’t think you’re seeing the progress you’ve made.”

“I don’t want to use her and, yeah, it feels like that’s an undue burden on her. I spent so fucking long alone, and she’s the firstperson I trusted myself to belong to.” Of course, this shit has me tearing up. I’m remembering why this process is so exhausting now. It feels like I’m coughing up a cactus, trying to get the feelings out.

We talk more about some ways I can work on regulating myself better, and he gives me the task of sharing my honest feelings with Dahlia. “It’s not a perfect science. You’ve done the heavy lifting when it comes to learning to manage your trauma. I have to imagine this relationship and the fear coming with it is reminiscent of the fear you felt in childhood at the hands of your father. Do you see the connection?”