Goodnight to My Thoughts of You

by Chelsea Rotunno

Chapter Twenty-One

  Therapy

  The LA marathon was amazing, and it taught me that with training and dedication, I could reach any goal, no matter how impossible it seemed. I went from running ¼ mile in October to 26.2 miles in March.

  At the beginning of my junior year, about six months later, Dante took me to dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. He asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes.

  But after a few months, I realized that Dante was predictable, reliable, and straightforward. I guess I wanted someone who was full of surprises. And still, in my mind, no one was as wonderful or as godly as Paul.

  I was an RA in the dorms that year, and I told Dante that I was too busy with schoolwork and RA responsibilities to continue dating. I needed some space.

  In fact, I needed to give up dating altogether.

  Once I made the decision, I felt a weight lifted from me. Freedom, self-assurance, and a sense of adventure overcame me, replacing the rejection, neediness, and self-doubt I had felt after Paul chose another woman. It was not only for my own good that I gave up dating but also for the good of the guys I had hurt along the way. I realized that I had not treated them well; I had not taken their hearts seriously. It was almost as if I had been so hurt that I felt entitled to recklessly break any heart that dared to leap in front of me.

  Healing from a broken heart was a slow process. I wouldn’t have healed without the help of counseling. It was my resident director who walked me over to the counseling center after I told her about Paul during our weekly one-on-one. She insisted that I go.

  “Miriam,” she said, “sometimes we have wounds that can’t heal because we have too many band-aids on top of them. What helps the true healing begin? You have to peel off those old, sticky band-aids, no matter how much it hurts, and let some fresh air get on that wound. Then you can look at it, have a professional look at it, and treat it properly so it can heal forever.”

  In my counseling sessions, Carol, the psychologist, helped me hack away at those old bandages.

  In the beginning, I resisted.

  “Why should I trust you?” I asked her in our second session. “Why should I believe that you care about me when you don’t even know me?”

  She quickly turned the question back to me. “Why do you think I care? Have I done anything to show you I care?”

  “No. You are here because you have to be here. You’re paid to be here.”

  “Have I said anything to suggest I don’t care?”

  I thought about it for a while. “No.”

  “Good. Well, first of all, I do care about you. And you can trust me because I have the training to know how to help you. Not only that, but God gives some people the gift of listening and counseling so they can help other people. He cares about you, and he brought you here so I can help you.”

  As the session went on, I noticed that she built our discussion on what I had said the week before. She brought up topics that she could see were important to me, and she was right: She did have the gift of counsel, and she did care about me. Once I trusted her, I let it all gush out.

  Within the first three weeks I had divulged my four main areas of struggle: unhealthy eating habits, my relationship with my mom, low self-esteem, and difficulty with guy relationships.

  “Tell me about Paul,” she said in one session. “Who is he; what is he like?”

  “Paul loves God. His love for God is so genuine that he glows. His personality is so warm that people are drawn to him. He is the ideal guy, the man every girl wants to marry. He saw my love for God; he told me there was something special about me. I thought, wow, if this man sees God in me, we must be made for each other.”

  “Do you think there might be someone else out there who will see that in you?”

  “Honestly, most of the guys I meet just see the outside. They don’t like me for who I really am.”

  “How do you know? Are you letting them see who you really are?”

  I thought for a while. “No, probably not.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe, because I don’t trust them?”

  “But you trusted Paul.”

  “Yes. And he slammed my heart into the ground.”

  “Now, listen to what you just said. You said he is the ideal guy. Then you said he slammed your heart into the ground. Do perfect guys slam young girl’s hearts into the ground?”

  “No…”

  “Can you admit, then, that he is not perfect?”

  “No, because I never let him know how hurt I was. I hid everything from him. I made him believe I was fine.”

  “Well, then think about this: Do perfect 27-year-olds start dating 17-year-olds?”

  “He did,” I said stubbornly.

  “You need to realize something very important, Miriam,” she said, leaning toward me. “You have this guy on a pedestal, and until you kick him off, you will never find a man you can marry. You need to admit Paul’s faults. He should never have taken you out on dates and touched your hand and told you he wanted you to finish college in three years. That was careless. That was hurtful to you.”

  “Yes, but, we both believed that God had a plan that was bigger than our age difference.”

  “You are defending him. You are keeping him safe so he won’t get in trouble and so you won’t have to take him off the pedestal in your mind. You have to admit that he was wrong. He was irresponsible, and he used you because he liked having a young girl’s attention to make him feel young and desirable.”

  “That’s not all it was, though.”

  “But that is what it turned into. That is all that is left of it.”

  “I just wish you knew him, then you would get it. You would like him.”

  “OK, I am sure he is a friendly, charming guy. But he isn’t perfect. No one is.”

  “Right, no one is perfect.” I began to let those words sink in.

  “Close your eyes,” she said. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly.

  “I want you to picture a big pedestal in your mind. It is at the top of all you are and all you believe in. I want you to picture Paul sitting on that pedestal. Do you see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK. Now I want you to picture him climbing down off the pedestal and stepping down to the level of the rest of the people in your life. He is joining the crowd filled with everyone you know.”

  “I see it.”

  “Now what is left up there?”

  “It is God’s seat. It is where God should be.” I started crying.

  “Good!” she said enthusiastically. “Now isn’t that funny. Paul said he could see that you were only God’s. Meanwhile, you gave Paul the throne of your heart, and then he drifted away from you.”

  “That’s not funny; that is terrible. That is sick,” I said, laughing and crying at the same time. “How could I let that happen? How could I ruin everything?”

  “You were young,” she said gently. “And when the right man comes along, you won’t make that mistake again.”

  It took three pathetic years. Three years to get over one guy, and he was married for two of those years.

  Later that semester I went home over the weekend, opened my desk drawer where I had saved all my letters, poems, and songs, the postcard from Paul, the bracelet, every little trinket and memory from our time together, and dumped it all in the trash can without even a second thought.

  After my junior year of college, I made it through six whole months without dating or kissing anyone. I was so proud of myself. I felt strong, graceful, focused, and obedient. The lesson I learned from Passion and Purity finally took a hold on me. I just had to stay away from guys who wanted to date me and then it was easy to save my kisses for my husband. But it was more than my kisses and my body that I was saving. I was getting healthy. I was taking care of my heart and soul. I was becoming a good gift for a good man, and he was becoming a wonderful gift for me.