Dad’s eyes flare. “Incorrectly diagnosed? What do you mean?”
“I don’t have issues with attention. A general anxiety disorder, yes, but not attention deficit.” I explain what my therapist and my doctor explained to me. How the changes and the loss affected my ability to manage school.
Dad reaches out and covers my hand with his. “Teagan, sweetheart.”
I see his guilt, and I wish I could take it away for him, but I know that he needs time to process this, just like I did. “I don’t blame you, Dad; you were struggling to raise three kids on your own, and you lost your wife. I was six and constantly afraid one day I was going to come home from school and you’d be gone too.”
Van puts his arm around my shoulder. “I remember how upset you’d get if Dad was late coming home from work.”
“I was always worried something was going to happen to him. My therapist says I have abandonment issues. Which makes sense. And I look so much like her, and you used to tell me that all the time.” I give Dad a small smile.
“You do, still. You have her smile and her eyes and her personality.” He squeezes my hand.
I nod. “I have some great memories of Mom, but I have some not-so-great ones too.”
“What do you mean?” His smile falls.
“I remember she used to drink ‘water’ with lemon or cucumber slices out of fancy glasses. And she always napped at the same time of day as me, and she always made us fun dinners, but she never ate with us, saying she was going to wait for you.” I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I remember that, too,” Van says softly, as if he’s putting it together for the first time and seeing how all the pieces fit.
I turn back to Dad, whose expression is crestfallen. “We don’t blame you for what happened to Mom. And I think being here, I’ve learned a lot about what it must have been like for you. And I’ll never know why she was the way she was, but she loved us with her whole heart, and you, and sometimes I think maybe she didn’t leave enough room in her heart for herself.”
“She was so selfless, just like you. Always doing things for other people. She loved you kids so much. You were her whole world.” His eyes pool with tears, and I feel like I didn’t bring enough tissues for this conversation.
“I know how much you loved her, Dad. You were always taking care of her, giving her whatever she wanted. I remember you telling her she was beautiful and she didn’t need to change a thing.” Tears slide down my cheeks, and I pull a tissue from my pocket. I’ve shed my fair share of them since I started down this path to healing.
Dad covers his mouth with his hand, fighting with his own emotions. “I didn’t want her to have the surgery. I tried to talk her out of it.”
“I didn’t know that,” Van says. He’s been quiet so far, observing.
“I loved her so much, maybe to a fault. I wanted her to be happy, but sometimes she struggled with that. When she suggested the surgery, I told her it wasn’t necessary and that I loved her exactly as she was, but she told me it would make her feel better about herself. She’d been through bouts of postpartum, and I’d hoped it would give her something to feel positive about. And then we lost her.”
This isn’t something we’ve ever talked about as a family. Sure, Dad sent us all for counseling, but not together. When we were kids and Mom had passed away, Dad blamed himself. Saying he shouldn’t have let her take the risk. And instead of letting us all know the truth, that she had been the one who wanted the surgery, he allowed us to believe it was him because he didn’t want to tarnish her memory. And in his mind, he’d failed our mother and deserved to shoulder the blame.
And as he breaks down, as we all do, I feel like we’re finally on the road to healing.
As we talk and share stories, I tell them that they aren’t to blame for me ending up here. “You’ve both always been so supportive of me, and sometimes what I was told wasn’t always what I heard. A lot of the pressures I felt were of my own making.”
“I should have seen that you were taking on too much,” Van argues.
“Now that I’m no longer in it, I can see what it was doing to me. All of those jobs were a distraction from the real issues. It started as me trying to figure out what I liked and quickly spiraled into me trying to take on the world and not wanting to disappoint anyone. They made me feel important, essential. At least on the surface.”
“No one would have faulted you if you wanted to quit a few of those jobs,” Van says softly.
“I know, but they were a diversion from the real work that needed to be done. And that work needed to be done on me.” I squeeze his arm. “Sometimes we need to dig out all the bullshit so we can get to the heart of the matter. Which is what I’m doing now.”
“Will you come back to Pearl Lake when the program is over?” Van asks.
“You know you’re always welcome back at home, if you think Chicago would be better,” Dad offers. “I know I haven’t been the best dad, or the most present, but you always have a place with me.”
This is one of the things I’ve talked through with my therapist over the past couple of weeks. Where I plan to go when the program is over. I’ve done a lot of reading while I’ve been in treatment and listened to all the stories of the other people who are here too. They all say the same thing, that I need time to recover, to stand on my own. And I’m not sure Pearl Lake is the right place to do that. At least not yet. Eventually, yes, I want to make it my home. But for now living with my dad is probably the better, smarter plan if I truly want to recover and heal.
“I want to come back to Pearl Lake eventually, but I think I might need a few months to work on me before I can do that.”
“You can stay with me for as long as you want,” Dad says.
“And you can visit me and Dillion whenever you feel like it. The apartment above the garage is yours.” Van hugs me for what has to be the tenth time.
I feel like I’m taking steps in the right direction.
But the next one is going to be a lot harder than this.
CHAPTER 29
WAIT FOR ME
Teagan
After thirty days my therapist and my doctor believe I’m ready to start my new life. I’ve been weaned off the Adderall completely. I have a new prescription for the anxiety that is much better for me, and I’ve kicked my energy drink and caffeine pill habit.
I feel like a very different version of myself, but I’m aware that inside the protective walls of a treatment center I’m insulated and secure, outside them not so much. So I decide that I’m going to move back to Chicago for a few months, at the very least.
I’ll still consult on designs for the Stitches and go to Pearl Lake once a week, but I’ll be working remotely otherwise. And I’m still managing the fall farmers’ market, but I have lots of help this time.