Teeny wants me to see a head shrink.
And as someone with a very healthy appreciation of all things psychological and years of therapy under her belt; I really shouldn’t be opposed to this idea.
I also probably shouldn’t call highly educated and qualified psychologist's head shrinks.
Oh well.
I honestly cannot explain why I don’t want go to talk to someone right now. I’ve been to plenty of therapists in my life; some good, and some bad. The truth is that I owe so much of my current stability to an incredible therapist that I had while in college; someone who walked me through my past and helped me put the pieces together without the drugs that doctors had pumped me full of since I was a pre-teen.
(As a side note – I am not judging those who need psychotropic medications in any way, shape, or form. I just feel strongly that they never should have been given to me as a child, and that for me they simply are not [and will not ever again be] the answer. I want to be able to cope and thrive and survive this life on my own, without the assistance of chemical substances. But that is just me, and I in no way believe that what is best for me is what’s best for anyone else.)
As I was saying; I've had wonderful experiences with therapy. I admittedly spent a few years of my life in my late teens and early twenties in a completely depressive haze. I couldn’t get out of it. I was angry at the world over the ways in which I felt I had been slighted. Much of it stemmed from what I still to this day consider neglect on the part of my mother and borderline abuse on the part of my stepmother; but I couldn’t let it go. There I was: an adult on her own out of those painful situations; but I kept forcing myself to relive them. I kept forcing myself to go back and feel that hurt. Day after day after day.
And it was through therapy that I got out of that. It was through therapy that I learned to see the reality of the situation for what it was and recognize that I didn’t have to allow it to be my reality anymore.
It was actually through therapy that I learned to forgive my Dad. I don’t talk about it much here, but my dad and I had a very strained relationship for a long time as a result of the abuses of my stepmother; I felt like he hadn't protected me. Like he too had abandoned me and allowed her to tear me apart. There were 3 years there where we didn’t talk at all. I couldn’t forgive him and I couldn’t see his side, so instead I tried regularly to hurt him back and make him feel as lonely and wounded as I felt.
It wasn’t healthy.
But through therapy I worked past that and I began to see my dad for who he was instead of painting him as the failed hero. It was actually a good thing, because it helped me to forgive him and it gave us a starting point to rebuild our relationship from.
A relationship which anyone who reads here regularly enough knows, means the world to me now. My dad and I are incredibly close, and he is typically the first person I go to for advice on just about everything now.
If you knew us even 5 years ago though, you would have never believed that was possible.
So, I know the miracles that therapy can work. I know what a blessing a good therapist can be.
But when Teeny suggested today during our session that I start seeing someone, I immediately clenched up. I started making excuses in my head and letting them spill out of my mouth:
“I’m not depressed.”
“I think I’m coping pretty well.”
“Writing is my therapy now.”
Excuses that were flimsy at best, and I knew it.
Teeny knew it too. As I was leaving, she slyly handed me the card of the person she thinks I should see. The woman she thinks would be able to help me wrap my head around all of this.
The thing is, I really am not depressed, and I really do think I’m coping pretty well, but… it’s a lot. It’s been a lot. For the last two years, it's just been a lot.
I moved to Alaska because after 3 or 4 visits up here, I felt like this was where I wanted to settle down. I moved here because I wanted to have a real relationship (instead of the rampant flings that were so common for me in San Diego), get hitched, and have babies. I moved here because I was ready to start that stage of my life.
And within just a few months of being here, that dream was already on its way to falling apart. I had been healthy my entire life, and then suddenly; I wasn’t.
The “cancer” word was thrown around, hysterectomies were suggested, and I was cut open not once but twice; in the span of one year.
It was a lot.
Suddenly I had a diagnosis I never even knew was a possibility for me, and doctors telling me that the aggression of my case was unheard of; doctors telling me that I may never conceive.
Even though the only thing I had ever wanted was to have children. Even though I always thought I would have plenty of time.
It was a lot.
In the middle of all this, I was making and breaking my first real relationship, and a friendship that I had held close to my heart for years was falling apart.
It was a lot.
And now we’re here. One failed cycle in, and a pending final round on the horizon. I feel like I’m coping. I feel like I’m doing OK.
But I also know that I still live in the shadow of that highly depressed girl. I still live in fear of ever becoming her again. And because of that fear, I steer myself as far as possible away from anything that even resembles depression.
I bottle up, I ignore, and I push forward. I am so afraid of becoming that girl again, that I don’t allow myself to feel the hard stuff.
And I know that isn’t right either.
When I started writing this, I had no intention of seeing a head shrink. I had no intention of putting myself through that torture. I had no intention of talking it out, because clearly I don’t need it.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
But maybe (just maybe); fine isn’t good enough anymore.
ADSPACE
