The sun beats down on my head as each rhythmic thud beats in my ears. My cadence is picking up as the events of last fall replay in my mind. With each rumination, my heart grows colder even as my body heats up and the sweat trickles down my back. As hard as I try to literally run the anger and sense of betrayal out of me, the more resentment and hurt cling to me. I use to be carefree. I used to be kind. Now I feel cold inside, unforgiving, unrelenting in my desire to see those who hurt me suffer the same way. Payment for my stolen sense of community, belonging and acceptance.

5 miles in 39 minutes, my best time yet. At least my anger is working for me in one area of my life.

I hop in the cold shower and luxuriate in the cool water washing away all the murderous fantasies I indulge in since I can’t actually bring myself to hurt anyone no matter how much they hurt me. God, I need this appointment. My aunt told me about this therapist she saw after my uncle died and spoke so highly of her that I was convinced to give it a go.

I finally stopped procrastinating and called to arrange an appointment after I was caught in one of my murderous daydreams during a staff meeting at work. It was mildly humiliating as all eyes were on me, as I was gripping my pen with a white knuckled death grip and probably looking like a psycho as everyone awaited my response. “Maura? Are you okay? “

“Oh, yes, I was just trying to recall the name of a book one of the mothers told me about for next year’s curriculum “ I, uh, wanted to propose a new reading list for next year. We’ve been rotating the same books for the past few years. We should consider mixing it up. There are so many great authors out there and thought provoking literature. It would be ashame not to explore some new material”.

“Sounds good Maura, let’s see a few of your picks at next week’s meeting. And please don’t have an aneurysm trying to recall a singular book! You’re not in communist Russia, we won’t send you to the Gulag if you can’t remember” exclaimed principal Warner. Laughter fills the room as teachers and paras start to pack up to go home.

Principal Warner is a good boss. She is kind, funny and supportive, unlike some of my snarky and entitled moms. The dads are usually more bearable, save for one, Steve.

Steve is the pompous peacock of the 7th grade PTA. He’s good looking by definition but honestly his personality is so off putting that I no longer view him as attractive. He’s a pharmaceutical rep with way too much time on his hands. So he graces our halls of Saint Bernadette’s middle school far more often than a good parent should, trying to butt in where he doesn’t belong and steer policy and academic curriculum in a direction he thinks is fitting of our small, bedroom community of doctors, corporate lawyers and trophy wives.

He is one of the main stars of the murder miniseries that plays through my brain during my runs and apparently during boring staff meetings.

“It’s as if the knife they used to stab me in the back was a long pointy icicle that also pierced right through my heart. I have no sense of joy, no compassion. I just feel like my heart has become hardened. Cold. Please help me come to terms with this. Why am I dwelling on the past so much and on these people who aren’t worth of my time? It’s so frustrating yet I can’t seem to let go” I squirm a bit in my chair, feeling my face flush with emotion.

Jeanine, my new therapist, is intently listening and writing down a few notes occasionally. She holds my gaze, which is as uncomfortable as a root canal. I make myself hold her gaze without looking away. I need her to see me as strong, capable and reasonable. I need her to see I am right and they are wrong.

“Maura, I’m so glad you’re here. Opening up is the first step to healing. We will unpack this piece by piece until we uncover the root of your distress, which may not even be this event or these people. Oftentimes the issues people come to me for are actually just the latest symptom of a longstanding issue that predates any of the current trauma. It’s like having a physical illness which has symptoms long before the actual diagnosis but it’s not until the symptoms become more severe that they become recognizable and treatment is sought. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, it does make sense” I say but in my head I’m still not confident I will get there.

As I leave her office I silently resolve to drive through the uphill switchback of my fucked up thoughts and maladaptive coping mechanisms with her as my guide. I will drive through the dead of winter with barren trees, dead foliage and dagger like icicles baring down on me as the path narrows until I reach the summit, frost bitten, numb and alone at the peak of Mount Acceptance.