(this post contains discussion around suicidal ideation. Please take care of yourself and skip if needed.)
I am of the mind that everyone has something that is their “thing”. The thing that feels innate, that they can’t help but be drawn to. You may not even consider yourself good at it, but it’s that thing you find yourself reaching for when you’re not sure what else to do, the thing that brings comfort, the thing that when you really take a moment and think about it, you realize makes you feel alive.
For me, that thing has been writing.
I used to say I’ve journaled since I was 12, until I stopped to think about it and remembered that the journal that I considered to be my first was one I picked out at a school event because my mom thought I would like, and why would she say that if I hadn’t had one before? It’s safe to say that journal from when I was 12 is the one that stuck, being the first one I fully finished, but there were others before. As I have found them over the years, pulled them out of storage boxes packed when we moved when I was 9, and unearthed after the hurricane when I was 28, the oldest journal I have dates back to when I was 7. It has a smattering of drawings and short entries that were of the type I’ve seen posted online, examples of kids being kids and dropping deep or dark facts stated as if it were nothing, random confessions shared without batting an eye. I realized that I have been writing since I was taught how to hold a pencil and form sentences with it, since before I almost failed second grade because my penmanship was so bad Mrs. Lee wouldn’t let me move on to cursive. I had to bust my ass to catch up, which I did, and she let me progress.
It’s safe to say when I find myself unable to write that it raises some red flags—a symptom of something deeper going on. Sometimes it’s an entire avoidance, sometimes it’s short attempts that barely brush the surface, and sometimes it’s forced words for the sake of knowing that this is what helps. (That last one rarely goes anywhere.) Even this post is something I’m struggling with, not because I don’t have anything to say but because something feels off with the way the words are coming to me, and that’s something I don’t like. It feels like I have a dear and cherished friend and I can tell they’re going through something but I can’t figure out what it is or how to help them. Words are that friend, and I’m trying not to be too much or scare them away or do the opposite of what they need in my attempts at helping, but this has gone on for a few months now and something’s gotta give, so I’m pressing on anyway.
I’m in therapy—have been for a couple years now—and my therapist is the person I trust most in the world—she’s earned that. When I say to her, “I haven’t been able to write”, I don’t have to explain any further for her to know how dire that is; what it means. This most recent bout of it has had me in my head in ways that I don’t know I’ve truly been before. One of those ways has been questioning why I’m in therapy; if I should continue, weighing pros and cons. But even so, not really. Deep down I know that I want to stay in therapy. I know the benefits it has given me. I know that I am cared for and more than just another client on a list or simply an hour for my therapist to endure. I know this, and yet my brain has me questioning why I’m there, if I’m wasting my therapist’s time, if I’m being needy instead of handling things on my own. (TL;DR, none of what my brain has me questioning is true.)
When I get like this with anything, I find myself going through lists of things to try and make sense of the situation. For therapy, it’s lists of how it helps me, things I know to be true, and how therapy works and what makes it helpful. This is where I got stuck because even though there have been countless times where I went in to the session thinking surely this was the time I’d hit the wall and therapy would stop being helpful, still I would leave flabbergasted that I felt so much better than when I entered. This usually also brings on the brain questioning if I’m being dramatic and needy and making my own problems because I like how therapy makes me feel. My brain, Brian, is an asshole I tell ya. (We won’t get in to how Brian learned all these things that he repeats to me.) (Please also note that my brain is called Brian and is a man only when he’s being an asshole. When my brain is being lovely, she’s a woman as of yet to be named.) Try as I might, I haven’t been able to figure out how therapy is so helpful. What is it about 50 minutes yapping with a person that can utterly change my world?
I don’t have that figured out yet, except that I know that its so much more than just me talking shit for an hour. It’s also something different than what, at least for me, I feel I can get from a friend. One of the things that has taken the most adjustment is that my therapist requires nothing from me. I show up, and it’s all about me. I don’t have to hold space for her like she does for me to make it even, or worry about how I’m coming across. I don’t have to be afraid I’m offending her or that what I say is going to be too heavy for her to hold or too uncomfortable for her to sit with me. Do I still find myself afraid of those things? Yes, largely because I also know that my therapist is a human being and not a robot (thankfully) and has her own emotions and triggers and everything else. But my current therapist happens to be really good at her job and has mastered how to separate herself from her work. She has assured me she has her own support system and I don’t need to worry about being too much or saying anything too dark or triggering. That in and of itself is a bit of a mind-fuck for me, but maybe that’s part of the stuff I’m working through that has me in therapy. To be determined.
I had therapy yesterday, and it was one of those days that I wasn’t sure how that hour was going to help since I know there’s nothing anyone can do to actually fix what I’m going through. I’m painfully aware that it’s something I have to endure and that I don’t know how long that will take or if the light at the end of the tunnel is freedom or a train about to plow me over. Still, as soon as we signed off, I found myself in tears. I’m still learning how to let myself feel, so this in and of itself was notable for me, but what I realized is that even though I know she doesn’t have solutions for me and that I know we haven’t done anything more than have a 50-minute long conversation, I still tangibly feel the difference in how I felt before and how I felt after. Then, a word popped up to describe it: hope.
And I don’t mean “hope” in the sense of how I’ve so far always thought of the word. It’s not that I’m suddenly filled with sunshine and roses and know that everything will be okay and one day the world won’t suck and all of this will be a distant memory—my life isn’t that kind of story. This isn’t a short-term instance with an end date, though I do have those throughout as well. I do have situations with a before and an after, but on the whole, it’s more of a big long story that started the day I was born and will only end when my life does. That concept doesn’t really bring with it a feeling of “hope”, you know? Suicidal ideation is something I’ve dealt with since I was 14, and sometimes I marvel at the fact I’ve made it this far. Sometimes I’ve only made it by telling myself, “not today. Wait until you’re 65, then we can reevaluate.” Why 65? I have no idea, but it worked so I’m not questioning it. No, this hope was different. And maybe it isn’t even hope; maybe there’s a better word for it that I don’t know, or maybe a word doesn’t yet exist for it in English. All I know is that feeling was something I felt so assuredly that it felt like something that surely would have a name, and that name I gave it yesterday was hope.
It was as though my therapist stepped into my world, into my mind, and it’s as though my mind is the attic of my being. She wasn’t in a hurry, and nothing of what she saw surprised or alarmed her. Her presence was gentle, and she helped me sort through the boxes I’ve packed away, slowly pulling out different things, holding them up, and helping me decide if we keep it or let it go. But she did more than that. It wasn’t just the big stuff she helped me handle. No, afterwards she went the extra mile, grabbed a broom, and started sweeping up the floor and cleaning out the cobwebs—the little things that become so innate and engrained and accepted that we forget it’s even there. She took the time to make sure I was fully cared for and not just crisis maintenance.
The kindness of the thought of someone taking the time to help with the little things is something I almost can’t even fathom. I know that I’m not just another client to her, that this isn’t just another paycheck. I know that this was something that she was born to do and I am grateful every damn day that she decided and was able to follow her path to where she is now. Somedays I just stop and think about hardships she may have and must have faced to get to where she is—she is human, after all—and I wonder how many times she thought about giving up, how many times she questioned if it was worth it. I wonder if she could ever possibly know how much of a difference she makes in my life and what that actually means, because heaven knows I haven’t found the words to articulate it as hard as I may try. I also know that it’s possible she’s not everyone’s cup of tea—I know I’m not, and I also know that would surprise people to consider. Just because we’re a good fit for some doesn’t mean we’re a good fit for everyone, and that alone could be enough to get some pushback. When I think about how I even found her when I was brave enough to try therapy again and able to seek out a therapist, I’m baffled by all the things that had to align to make it so; and yet.
Now, here I am, filled with this feeling I can’t quite seem to pinpoint but that defies all explanation and acts as a balm to all of the wounds I bring to the table every time we meet. Whatever it is that happens with successful therapy is, I think, the thing I will be most grateful for in my life. Would I have made it to today without her? Maybe. Could I keep continuing without her? Probably. But then I ask myself—at what cost? What would I have to sacrifice and how much would I have to compromise and how much suffering would I endure if I was raw dogging this on my own? And, the scariest question of all, at what point would I have enough, throw in the towel, and decide that if I’m all I have then it’s not enough to stick around? It hasn’t happened yet, and as of late I do feel that may not have been the same story if I hadn’t been in therapy these past few years. My heart grieves at the knowledge that there are so many people in situations like mine who aren’t able to access a therapist, whether it’s because of cost or demographics or location or not having a safe way of accessing or any other number of reasons. I may not be as privileged as many I know, but of the privileges I do have, this is one of my greatest, and I thank my lucky stars every time it crosses my mind.
Maybe one day I’ll understand how therapy works and what about it makes it so effective. Maybe the classes I hope to take for a Psychology bachelor’s degree will give me some insight. Or maybe it will remain a mystery, and if it does, that’s okay. I don’t have to understand every facet of it to understand it to be true. Maybe this is what people meant by the word “faith”—another word I was taught to mean one thing that seems to be different from my current understanding. “Substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.” That came up like a sleeper agent just now, but looking at that description, it feels pretty fitting, doesn’t it?
Maybe I’ll ask my therapist about that next time I see her. Maybe something else will happen that will take up all of our session’s time. Maybe this will be something that remains in my understanding and unable to be articulated. And honestly, that’s okay by me. Not being able to explain it doesn’t make it or my experiences any less real. I’ll keep showing up and wondering at the mystery of this gift I am repeatedly given.
1988- 