“I’m sure she’s told you all kinds of horrible things about me. Well, I’m here to tell you my side of the story”

That’s how I began my first ever session with a Therapist.

I’ve interacted with a few people who’ve been to Therapists, and in nearly every case, the person’s first session involved blaming everything and everyone else for their troubled life, except themselves. It’s disappointing to know that I wasn’t any different.

Don’t we all want to believe we are just a bit special?

The year was 2011. The month was November. And despite my terrible memory, I remember the day. It was the 26th. A Saturday. Around 8pm. The Bomas of Kenya. I was wearing attire that left a decent chunk of my indented Chest exposed, because when you are 24 you can look like an idiot and think it’s trendy.

This friend, who had announced his intentions to get me as inebriated as a village drunk that very night, finally showed up. The Strathmore University party that I was attending, on invite from yet another friend (I had quite the social life), had started to bore me. In retrospect, being invited to a party hosted by the very Catholic and very strict Strathmore University should have raised red flags, but back then I was down for anything.

That’s the day I met her. My future wife.

She was not happy to be out and about on a cosy Saturday evening. Her dress code (Pyjamas) and nonchalant demeanor spoke volumes. To date I cannot explain what drew me to her cold stare, or why I kept talking to her despite her curt answers, or why later that evening I would try to kiss her, even though she had exhibited far more interest in nursing her drink than in my advances. Yep, I was that clueless (or bold?).

23rd December. Barely 3 weeks later, and only two dates in, the first of which we both concur went terribly, I asked her to be my girlfriend. I had never asked anyone to be my girlfriend before. That would be pathetic. When you knew, you knew. She said she would think about it. She kept me waiting for 3 days, including Christmas day, which you will agree with me is plain cruel. 27th December. She said Yes, and life made sense again.

By the time I sat in the Therapist’s virtual Chair (Covid things), it had taken me about 9 years to come to the conclusion that whatever I felt those many years ago may have been a false alarm after all. We were better off going our separate ways. I proceeded to give this Therapist an earful of my very well thought out reasons.

There was just one tiny little problem.

I was wrong.

I had not made a mistake those ancient years when I made my move. I could have done it in a less cringe-worthy manner, but I was right.

Many, Many sessions later, I was ready to reconsider. Except it had been about 6 months of separation, and for all I knew, some better dressed and better chested knight in Shining armor had swept her off her feet already.

The year was 2020. The month was August. I barely remember the day. Around 7pm. The setting was the bedroom of the house that had been my home until a few months before. I forget what I was wearing, but I remember my heart was dressed in fear, regret, and hints of shame. I was ready to beg if it came down to it, Ego be damned.

This time she didn’t keep me waiting for an answer. My return was an answered prayer on her part, our reunion a lesson-filled testimony that would be told and retold for years afterwards.