Discussing the word "home" in therapy. With Brad!

Last July, I formally moved in with Brad. I would be lying if I said it was an easy adjustment for either of us. I am going to rewind to April 2022 – 15 months prior. Brad and I “met” through Bumble, and before we had even exchanged phone numbers, we had talked about therapy. Here is the conversation:

“You are 1 out of 3,567 (and I’ve counted, this is an accurate number) guys to thoughtfully answer your prompts WHILE using punctuation. Kudos.”

“Thank you, thank you. Grammar and punctuation were always important to my mother, so there’s some kudos her way on that compliment. Also, if there’s a non-awkward way to say this, my therapist and I worked through my dating profile, and she helped me articulate who I am and what I am looking for.”

“Not awkward at all. I am also in therapy; I honestly should be going more than I do. That’s incredible that yours helped you with your profile, and you definitely articulated your personality well.”

“Thanks. I know mental health is still kind of an uncomfortable subject for some folks, especially men’s mental health.”

“Talking about mental health brings me no discomfort at all, and I wish more men would feel safe in opening up about their struggles, so thank you for sharing with me.”

We decided very early on that if we were to pursue a relationship, we would use therapy as a regular maintenance tool. I cannot overstate how invaluable it is to have a dedicated time to talk openly with an objective third party about things that occupy space in your brain and weigh on your heart.

All that said, I want to talk briefly about a part of our last session.

Normally, I go into sessions with a list of topics I want to discuss, and this time was no different. However, Joyce, our therapist, opened the session with “So, what’s new?” or something of equal vagueness.

I said, “Well, we just remodeled a bathroom together, and that has been fun.”

Joyce replied, “I looked at Brad’s face when you said ‘fun.’ Did you say fun sarcastically?”

I said, “No, actually. It was a lot of work, of which Brad did most of, but it was honestly such a testament to the progress we’ve made as a couple. A year ago, we couldn’t even clean out a closet together without it turning into an argument that required me to leave the room. Even during the really challenging parts of the bathroom remodel, we laughed our way through it. We learned how to better compromise. I have so much pride when I look at the bathroom because I know we accomplished it together.”

Brad chimed in and talked about a rather tense moment that occurred, when we had very different opinions about wallpaper, and he said, “I had to trust Lauren. She had a vision, and she was willing to die on that hill.”

To that, I said, “This is a key part though – a year ago, I was ready to die on EVERY hill, because I was a pain in the ass control freak. Nowadays, if I tell Brad I am willing to die on a certain hill, he knows how much weight that carries, because I have a lot of non-opinions, too. I will say, ‘I don’t have an opinion on that, or at least not a strong one. I trust you.’”

Okay, that truly was my longest tangent of all time.

Somehow, it got brought up that we would be celebrating Easter with Brad’s family.

Joyce asked, “Is this the first time you aren’t going home for a holiday, Lauren?”

“No, but it’s the first time I have intentionally decided to stay here.” I explained why, and I wish to keep my reasoning private, so I will not be sharing here.

Joyce said, “You both know that I place deep importance on the language we use. We’ve already discussed a lot today. Do you think it’s time we start talking about a specific word?”

Brad waited several moments while I sat in confusion and finally said, “Marriage?”

Joyce laughed in bewilderment and said, “No!"

I said, “Honestly, I have no idea what you are referring to.”

Joyce said, “All three of us have used a word during this session, and I want us to just think about whether we should change how we use it in relation to Lauren.”

Silence.

She continued, “Home.”

Silence.

“Lauren, what if you already are home?”

Ah-ha.

I said, through tears, “I know I am.”

The language would sound like this. "I am not going to Ohio for Easter. I am staying home."

Last July, I was driving to Brad’s house with the last of my belongings in my car. I remember being mostly sad, a little scared about the future. I remember thinking, “What can I do to make this feel more like home, and less like an extended sleepover?”

I detoured to the Floyd County Library with plans to open an account. The library is one of my favorite places in the world. If I was going to live in Floyd County, it only made sense to have a library card there.

I spent 45 minutes in the library, picking out books. I like to just browse. I took my four books up to the counter and said, “I would like to open a library account, please.” She said, “Proof of a Floyd County address, please.” I had none. And I began to cry. I cried right there in front of the librarian. I was so mad at myself for crying over something so trivial. I quickly explained that I had just moved here, and I would come back after I obtained appropriate documentation. I got to my car and started sobbing as I berated myself. “Why am I so upset over a library card?” I talked about the library card to Joyce in my next session, and she explained that it wasn’t about the library card at all.

After my and Brad’s most recent therapy session – the “home” session – I went back to the library with my W2 and opened an account. I deliberately checked out four books – not two, not five.

It took me TEN years after moving to Louisville and eight months after moving in with Brad, but I am finally home.