Client Hurt - Session 2

(Beep. Music fades in.)

You listened to your last recording a few times, did you not? Because I did not immediately answer your most pressing question. And you couldn’t believe that. After all, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been making these recordings for a while. Maybe too long. Maybe I should have come up with a better method by now. But in any event, you listened to your last recording a few times, trying to figure out something. And it had to be there, right? How could I not include the one thing that matters, the one detail you needed to know about. The one answer you were desperate to have. 

“Whose hurt are you referring to?” you want to ask me. You thought the answer would be in that first recording, lurking beneath the surface. After all, I started to answer it, didn’t I? And then we got side tracked. We got caught up in something, a secondary question, as it were. A question born out of concern with your partner.At the time, I thought it was more important to deal with that. At the time, you agreed. And to an extent, you still do, but we’ve moved past that detour. We’re back to where we started. Which is most unfortunate for you because the starting point is where you feel most scared. But you don’t even realize that’s what you’re feeling, right? That feeling came and set in about fifty meters before the starting line. And now it’s the only thing you know.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

And I’m annoying you now. You’re worried I’m going to get lost in the side questions again. You’re worried I will lead us down a scenic detour when you’re so desperate just to get to the point. 

“Which hurt?” you still want to ask me. More forcefully now. You’re about to beg me to answer. You needed the answer. You still need the answer. If it’s not in the first recording–or at least not explicitly in the first recording–then at least it could be here, right? But then again, once the file is in your phone, there’s nothing I can add to it. The message is set. And maybe I forgot. Maybe I deliberately didn’t include it. And all your begging is for nothing. 

But your premise is faulty. There is no one ‘hurt.’ You can’t separate the aches that you both feel. This injury that started this was yours, and now it’s become your partner’s as well. You two wear it differently, but it is not so different.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

Can I just ask you, although I know I won’t get an answer in the traditional sense, what did you think it meant to build a life with someone? Set aside the cliches. Set aside the almost literal interpretations of building a house brick by brick or building a family child by child. Or pet by pet. Whichever works for you. I won’t judge. But my point is that we get stuck on the creation part, I think. Or not even just creating something but specifically creating something out of nothing. 

And that act is beautiful. There is magic in it. I’ve done it. I know. But at the same time, there’s more to it than that.

Because when we build a life with someone, we aren’t just making things from scratch. We’re making other things anew. Although don’t put a value judgment on that fresh coat of paint. Sometimes it’s better. Sometimes the process of change that comes from a relationship makes us a better version of ourselves. And sometimes, we let the worst parts of us burst forth. And other times, well, things aren’t better or worse. We just are different. More aware of ourselves maybe. More aware of our hurts, by chance. 

And yet, maybe even despite that awareness, we don’t have the best perspective on our injuries, on the wounds that we carry. Maybe we can’t really see what they are or what they have been doing to us. Maybe we need someone else for that.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

“I love your optimism,” you once said to your partner. Partner otherwise unspecified now. You regret that. You regret both the ambiguity of title and what you said. Because you weren’t sure if it fit. Is your partner optimistic? You labored over the word. Romantic might be the better one. Overly romantic, you’re tempted to say. You’ve always been tempted to say. You don’t say it. You don’t want to say it. You have a terrible feeling that is, in fact, the right phrase. But there are implications to it. 

Or complications, I should say. You know them all too well. You’re afraid of them, in fact. 

Because you aren’t overly romantic. That doesn’t need clarification. That doesn’t need confirmation or any other sort of answer or participation. It just is the truth. You are not romantic. You like the idea of romance. That is your favorite genre of media to consume. You line up your bookshelves and pack your streaming history with every sort of romance available. You like the idea, but you cannot take it on. You cannot make it yours.

But it’s a fantasy to you. No different than dragons and the like. It’s a beautiful and majestic image, but it has no bearing on our world, you think. You wish it did, but old wounds of yours say it will never be that way. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

And you wonder if your partner sees those scars, lines on your body that you keep carefully hidden and tucked away. You think you should reveal them, disclose the stories that made them so, and reveal the ghosts that still haunt you. But you can’t, or so you say. You choose that verb can’t. Not shouldn’t or wouldn’t. You are unable to. You are afraid to. This is a matter of survival to you. It is a wager whose loss you fear immensely. It is one that you fear may destroy you.

“Are we compatible?” you find yourself asking, just under your breath. Potentially asking too much for how long you’ve been together. Or so you suspect. You feel as if the answer should already be set. It is the sort of simple, yes or no, sort of thing, you think. But once again, the answer is more complex. Or, rather, it can be. It is sometimes straightforward. But other times, for other couples–for the two of you–it will be something you build. Not from scratch but from the pieces you each bring to the table. 

And for you, that includes your hurts. I know you don’t want to believe. You want to believe you can leave that part of yourself behind. But no one else will entertain this illusion. No one else will deny what we see. It’s just you. Alone. In silence. The problem compounds.

(Music fades out. Beep.)

The Oracle of Dusk is a production of Miscellany Media Studios with music licensed from the Sounds like an Earful music supply. It was written, edited, produced, and performed by MJ Bailey. And if you like the show, tell friends about it or the quasi-friends that are still on your social media feeds because social norms evolved before words did, am I right?