In Which Natalie Realizes She Might Need Therapy

Have you ever been a mile away from your house, pulled over, and hid in your car?

You grabbed a coffee, or are just scrolling on your phone, and it’s literally the only “me” time you’re going to get all day.

That’s what I’m doing right now. I’m Natalie Caldwell, owner of Caldwell Event Planning, and I just don’t want to go home. The closer I get to home, the tenser I feel, I can literally feel the muscles in my back tighten and my jaw clench.

It’s not that I don’t love my family. I do. But I’ve been working all day, managing clients with big budgets and bigger egos, while also being the go-to for everything for my family, which is a gift and a curse.

I’m already stressed, and on top of running my business, just today I:

Dropped off the cleats and a helmet at school that my 16-year-old JV-football-playing son, Lucas, forgot because why would he remember to bring these very important items when mom can just swing by and drop them off. I keep telling him to pack his bag the night before or write down a list of what he needs to grab, but does he listen to me? Nope. He says I’m nagging him and making him feel guilty. Can you imagine if I forgot something for a client? Organization is vital and I keep trying to help him get organized, but it’s just not sticking. Perhaps it's because he refuses to take his ADHD meds, just a thought, but what would I know I’m only his mother and the person who has to clean up his shit.

I took my dad, Robert, to his dialysis appointment. He’s been living with us, me and my son, for the past year ever since his kidneys started to fail. I know his drinking led to the kidney damage, but I guess we’re all going to just overlook that because he certainly does. The alcohol got so much worse after mom died, but we don’t talk about that shit. He’s sober now, but the damage is done.

Fielded ridiculous calls from both of my siblings. They are twins and were really young when mom died. I guess I was, too, I was only 16, but since I’m the oldest and my dad basically dove headfirst into a bottle, I stepped up helping with them and they still come to me with everything. I’m 52 years old now and my siblings are 41—mind you these are grown ass adults—and they come to me with the most petty shit.

 My sister, Alexis, we call her Lexi, had her daughter, Anna, young (she’s 19 and away at college) and my sister called me today at 4am to see if I would text her daughter to find out if she is coming home to visit this weekend because my niece hasn’t replied to her texts. Like, why are you calling me that early? Why don’t you work on your relationship with your daughter so she will WANT to respond? Why do I consistently feel like I am organizing her messy life?  Alright, I guess I can shoot off a quick text, but she’s your kid.

My brother Alexander, aka Alex, called to bitch about the latest married old man he is dating. Whatever, dude, you’re a grown man who keeps making foolish choices. Just handle it.

This is all on top of running my business. Which I have to do extremely well to make sure I can pay the mortgage, put food on the table, and basically be a functioning, productive member of society. I work mostly on referrals, and no one is going to hire or refer an event planner who forgets to order the flowers or leaves the seating chart at the office. I need my shit to be together, and managing everyone else’s can take up too much brain space. I am constantly checking and rechecking every detail, which drives my assistant crazy. My anxiety is high, but I never let my clients see it, and all my events come off perfectly. I repeat: Organization!

So, anyway, I’m sitting in my car, drinking my fucking latte, listening to my damn 80s mix, and taking a minute to decompress before I walk into my house and have to start dinner for an unappreciative teen and grumpy old man. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, it’s just a lot, you know?

Anyway, it’s fine.

Tomorrow I’m going to see my bestie for a coffee date. Finally! I feel like she’s been avoiding me a bit, but it could just be that she’s really busy. She’s a therapist and I know her calendar is full. We’ve been friends forever and have been part of the same friend group since high school. I am so looking forward to seeing her. I can’t wait to tell her about all this bullshit. She always has something snarky to say about it. Ha!

I’m so excited to see Penelope. I really need to unload and get some shit off my chest!

We’ve got our tasty drinks, I’m cozy in the oversized coffeehouse chair, and ready to dish. I lean forward and open my mouth and Penelope puts up her hand as if she’s telling me to stop in the name of love.

“Before you start, we need to talk about something,” she says in a serious tone.

I sit back in the chair, “Sure. What’s up?”

“Listen, babe, you know I love you. You’re my ride or die, and so important to me. It’s because you’re so important to me, I’m going to tell you something, it might be hard to hear. Just know this is coming from a place of love and concern.”

She takes a big breath, “You need to get your shit together and talk to someone. Have you considered seeing a therapist?”

Me being silly, “Yeah! I’m seeing a therapist right now!” and I laugh a big laugh, but she doesn’t laugh with me. I get quiet and my anxiety starts to buzz. Is she mad at me?

“Babe, you’ve got a lot on your plate. You deserve to be happy, and right now, it is obvious you are not. I think you need a place to vent this stuff… not to me… and to get some real input from a therapist who isn’t personally invested in your life or on TikTok  who can help you navigate the shit show that is your life right now. You’re taking care of everyone, except you, and it’s not healthy.”

I’m taken a bit aback. I thought I was doing such a good job managing everything. Yes, I have been feeling stressed. Yes, my anxiety feels like it’s through the roof. Yes, I have been feeling so overwhelmed that I’ve been hiding in my car.

I wave my hand dismissively and say, “It’s fine, really, I’m just having a rough patch. Everything will settle down and I can manage it. I don’t need to see a therapist.”

She says a bit sadly, “Okay, just think about it. I want to be here for you, but as a friend. I can’t be your therapist, and I feel like our coffee dates have become a bit like sessions.”

“Okay,” I say.

After a moment I slap on a huge smile so she sees that I’m fine and in my most everything-is-okay-and-normal voice I say, “So, tell me what’s been going on with you.”

Maybe if I don’t complain too much this time, she’ll forget about this whole therapy nonsense.

On my drive home after coffee and a full day of work I think about what Penelope said. I start to cry and am trying to hold back the tears, even though I am alone and no one is here to see me crying. Maybe I do need to talk to a therapist? Does that make me weak?

I’m Gen X, baby! We suck it up and walk it off. No use dwelling on the past, right? But Penelope’s words keep running through my head. “You deserve to be happy… You’re taking care of everyone, except you… You need to get your shit together.”

I pull over to my spot. My hidey spot, where I have been avoiding life 15 minutes at a time for the past year. I turn on my music (“It Must Have Been Love” by Roxette) and let myself cry a bit and resolve to do some research that evening on therapists in my area. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but I know Penelope is right.

I can’t keep going on this way. Maybe therapy will help?