Why I Never Told You

even though I thought I did

In the accelerating chaos of the world this week I’ve been asked by three separate individuals why I didn’t tell them something obvious to which they were oblivious.

Not spinach-in-the-teeth obvious (you know how I feel about that). Never met anyone who wanted to learn about the spinach later… so when you see it, you say so, straight and to the point.

But other kinds of obvious, more opinion than empirical. Like a job that was a poor fit, or a relationship that appeared dramatically off-kilter, or a coping mechanism gone rotten.

That’s just not how it works, you know?

Although I’ve been in those just-tell-me shoes. Desperate enough to go on Dr. Phil and learn the truth via spectacle. Years ago, sitting on the overstuffed and moderately sagging couch in my therapist’s office, clinging to a decorative pillow that functioned alternately as a voodoo doll and a primordial fidget spinner, I asked her why she didn’t just tell me. I’ve seen Dr. Phil, and he just knows. If you do, too, why don’t you say so?

I thought therapy was supposed to go like this: listen to me for a few sessions, and then outline:

1. You overthink everything, Kwinn.

2. You are not defined by your appearance, accomplishments, or relationships status.

3. Work less. A lot less. Maybe find a hobby and don’t turn it into a job.

Instead, she kindly listened week over week, offering positive reinforcement and sometimes interrupting me to say,

“I didn’t ask what you thought about xyz, I asked how you felt.”