Page 51 of Drive Me Crazy
“What if she leaves like my mum did? What if I’m not good enough for her either?”
I rest my face in the palms of my hands, trying to compose myself, but it’s no use. Oh, how the media would have a field day if they saw Blake Hollis, King of Formula 1, crying in his therapist’s office. Paul hands me a box of tissues that seems to appear out of thin air. I don’t question it, instead gratefully taking the tissue box.
“It’s been well over twenty years since she walked out. Why can’t I just be fucking over it already?”
“Sometimes the ones we think we need the most are the ones who let us down the hardest, Blake, but that doesn’t make you any less capable of giving or receiving love. Coping with the loss of someone isn’t linear.”
The only thing I can do is shrug. If I talk, I’ll start crying again.
“Imagine your grief like a ball in a box, and in that box is a button that represents pain. In the beginning, the ball takes up most of the box, hitting the button constantly. It’s demandingand exhausting, a relentlessly overwhelming feeling. Everything is a reminder of your loss.”
I nod along to indicate I’m following.
“Over time, the ball gets smaller. It doesn’t mean the grief goes away, but it hits the button a lot less. You have more time to recover in between bouts of sadness. And the ball will always be there. It just becomes easier to manage over time.”
“But then finding my mum last year, not that she deserves that title, and hearing that she doesn’t care enough to have a relationship with me”—I struggle to get the words out—“I feel like it added another ball into this hypothetical box. And so even though my grief may have gotten smaller or whatever, now this ball is constantly bumping my button.”
I cringe at how sexual this hypothetical sounds but suck it up and keep talking.
“So it’s this constant reminder that my grief is still there, and then I’m forced to hit the fucking pain button again.”
Paul applauds my ability to apply the situation to his analogy. It feels good that he notices the work I’m putting in.
“Exactly. And the ball will always be there. It’s just a matter of how we handle that pain when it does hit.”
“Hitting people with my car felt like a pretty good way to deal with it.”
One of the biggest downfalls of being a public figure is that not only does my therapist hear about my shitty life decisions from me, but he gets to watch them on TV and read about them in the paper. A three-for-one deal. Lucky him.
“But you decided to finally come back to therapy on a regular basis after that. You realized you weren’t coping in a healthy, productive way.”
That’s for fucking sure. Drinking myself into oblivion and driving my car like I was a player in Mario Kart (thanks for that one, Ella) was the furthest thing from healthy or productive.
“Ifeel like I’m broken, and if I let her in, I’ll just end up breaking even more.”
“You’re not broken, Blake. Don’t be so hard on yourself for taking time to heal. You’ve been through a lot of shit and no one’s expecting you to come to terms with that instantaneously.”
“I guess I’m just scared,” I admit. Saying it out loud makes me feel like I’m going to pass out. Calloused hands push into the seat of the couch as I count how many textbooks are behind Paul’s head.
“Being scared isn’t always a bad thing. It can also mean you care.”
I groan loudly, leaning back into the couch. That’s what Ella said during my first interview with her.
“Ella deserves the world and what if I can’t give that to her? I’m scared of losing her because I’m not enough. I feel like I’ve already lost her and I’m fucking miserable.”
“Why do you feel like you’ve lost her already?”
Paul waves at the floor, letting me know I’m more than welcome to pace. It’s how I think best. I’m up and striding across the room without another thought.
“You know phantom limb syndrome?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “I watched some documentary about war veterans, and they talked about it. They described it as this, like, twisting ache that comes in a quick flash or spark. That’s sort of how it feels. Like she should be here, with me, but she’s not.”
He looks sincerely impressed with me and I glow under his attention. Hell, I’m proud of myself too. I’ve been known to walk out halfway through a session if I don’t like where the conversation is going.
“My advice? Stop worrying about those who’ve hurt you and start focusing on those who heal you. Who you know will stick with you through hell and high water. Based on what you’ve told me about Ella, she doesn’t sound like someonewho’s going to run away just because things get hard. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I spend the rest of the break continuing my sessions with Paul, sim driving at McAllister’s HQ, seeing my sister and her family, and yep, stalking Ella on social media. I’ve officially become that guy. She spent a few weeks in Chicago with her family before heading to New York.
I chuckle at a photo of her and her brother eating hot dogs together at a Cubs game. I watch her take the phrase “dance like no one’s watching” to a new level at a bar with her friends. I listen to her drunkenly explain to Poppy why appetizers are just as important to dinner as dessert. I grin at a picture of Ella and her bagel guy, Sal. I can’t get enough of her. It’s like watching her life through a crystal ball when all I want to do is live it with her instead.
