How much does a door cost?
I’m asking because I broke one.
I’m dying to tell you the story, but it’s gonna require me to fess up to a little lie of omission.
A few weeks ago I mentioned (here) that for the first time ever in my life, I stormed out of a room. That part was true.
But I also claimed that I didn’t slam the door, because that’s an advanced storming out move and I was a first-timer. That part was only half true.
While I did not slam the door inside the group therapy room, there was another door leading from the Good Doctor’s suite of offices out into the hushed hallway.
I slammed that door really fucking hard.
At the first session post-storm-out, the Good Doctor made a joke insinuating that I broke the door. But because he’s not very funny, I didn’t get the “joke.” However what he lacks in humor he makes up for in tenacity. He made another reference to his “broken door.” And then another one.
Well God dammit, Doctor, are you trying to tell me I broke your door? Just say so. This whole “be direct” thing you are so fond of applies to you too, you know.
So he said it directly: “You broke my door.”
I didn’t know what to say so I shocked everyone (especially me) by shutting up.
But I didn’t stop thinking about it. I spent a few weeks wandering around, lost in the murky ethical thicket. Am I obligated to buy him a new door? Pay for repairs? Apologize? Mahogany or pine?
I knew if I brought it up again, he was going to ask me about my feelings. I would have to tell him that I felt afraid that I was in trouble with him and that I felt ashamed that I couldn’t hold my shizz together enough to storm out with all my belongings and without destroying the premises.
But, remember, he knows me. So I would have to cop to one more naughty, unspeakable feeling.
Yes, if I talked about my feelings I would betray that I felt a teeny, tiny, little, wee bit proud of myself for having that much fury. For leaving a fucking mark. For not being such a pansy-assed, pay-on-time-and-don’t-disturb-the-doctor kind of woman.
He’d detect the hint of swagger about me. He’d sniff out that 4.8% of me that feels a perverse joy I broke his door and the even smaller part of me that hopes he understands something new about me.
I haven’t been ready to bring it up again, so I’ve held my tongue.
He, however, can’t seem to shut up about it. His most recent reference proved to me that he’s way of ahead of me in understanding the mysteries of my heart and mind.
“If you need to break my door to write a novel is that OK with you?”
Hmmmmm. He didn’t seem mad. Actually, he seemed proud and amused and convinced it’s related to the book I am writing.
When I am not perusing the Home Depot website for doors, I think about his question. Is it OK with me? Is it OK with me that writing a novel stirs up more emotion (namely, rage and terror) than I’ve ever experienced? Is it OK that I may break some things along the way? Is it OK that it may be brutally messy and expensive and draining?