Therapy – 1988-

15 May 2025

I’ve been in therapy for a little over a year now and today’s session included me admitting that I realize I have abandonment issues. So original.

If you knew me in real life, that’s not something you would expect to be my reality, and if you knew me in real life you might be tempted to mansplain my own experiences to me. If you did either of these things you’d be shit and I’d either not have spoken to you in enough years that you don’t *actually* know me anymore and/or are family and I can’t write you off. (I can, technically, but it’s not something I know I can do without having regrets. Damn my bleeding heart.)

One of the places I’ve known abandonment is through previous therapists who somehow heard what I told them and thought, actually you’re doing just fine. What she told me was, “You have really good instincts. I don’t think you need me anymore.” When I heard that I just said, “okay, thank you” because I’m not one for challenging authority. I’m more of the working-really-hard-to-make-sure-you-like-me-and-don’t-dread-when-you-see-my-name-come-up-on-your-calender type. What I was thinking was, “you just diagnosed me with OCD during a global pandemic two sessions ago and also, is there any hope if you’re saying I have good instincts and no longer need therapy after three months while I’m also still trying to convince myself life is worth living?”

Ironically, what got me to give therapy another try was a guy. It’s ironic because if you knew me, truly or not, you’d know I’ve never had a boyfriend. *gasp* So when there was this perfectly lovely guy who was interested in me and vetted by a dear friend, I didn’t feel I really had any reason not to date him except that my scalp felt tingly? I don’t know how else to explain it. Anyway, I found my current therapist based off vibes and its seemed to work out. I’m still low key afraid she’ll decide I’m fine and we’re finished, even though the last time I expressed this she said, “Well, you are fine, and we’re not finished.” Bless her.

There’s been less than a handful of sessions that have caused her to make a comment in the realm of, “I’ve never seen you like this before” which I take to mean she’s worried about me in that moment and can tell I am in the thick of the darkness. Today’s choice of words was, “I don’t often see you like this”, because we have been here before, but it is indeed a rare state of being. I tend to err on the side of optimism, yet if you know me you know I’m a walking oxymoron and my life is full of juxtapositions.

Today, I started the session convinced this would be the time I signed off and felt no better than when we began. I knew there would be nothing she would be able to do for me—there’s nothing anyone can do for me and that’s pretty much the whole reason I’m in this mess—and I was certain I would feel nothing but defeated. I’d been working for an entire week to try and find any sort of optimism, a sliver of hope to hold onto and time and time again my hands came up empty.

At one point, I equated my experience to toilet paper, because if you’re not laughing you’re crying, right? And she saw right through my facade and made the most incredible comment that I swear will be the title of my memoir if I were ever interesting enough to actually write a memoir people would read. At the end as we recapped, and I joked that she won’t be able to look at toilet paper without thinking of me now and she’s welcome and also I’m sorry, she said, “That [the potential memoir name] is definitely the weirdest thing I’ve ever said in a session.”

Reader, this felt like a badge of honor.

I don’t know if she had any clue what she was getting herself into when she took me on as a client 16 months ago, she certainly had no way of knowing it would go to the depths it has in that time frame though she’s so good at her job I wouldn’t be surprised if she expected more than meets the eye to a degree most may not. I’ve made every therapist I’ve worked with cry, and it took her a while to join that club (a testament to her wonderful boundaries and also her way of knowing what is appropriate when) but one of my favorite moments was making her laugh out loud in such an unexpected way that she immediately covered her mouth. My other favorite is knowing the weirdest thing she’s ever said in a session was in my session. Heck yes. Welcome to my weird little brain, make yourself comfortable, it’s bound to get weirder.

Truly, every time we meet I’m amazed at how good she is at her job. She seems to know exactly what to say or not say or do or whatever at the perfect time. There are little specific moments that are ones I reflect back on to remind myself of reality when my brain gets all doubt-y about things. I don’t know that I have ever felt so seen or heard or known by any one person before, and even as a self proclaimed “open book”, that’s a rare feat indeed. It’s not often I feel safe enough to truly be seen, but she manages to create that space and hold it for me, no matter how much I try to sabotage my progress.

What’s the point of this post? Not much, really, other than to say that a good therapist is worth more than anything else I can conjure. I don’t know what I did to deserve finding such a wonderful one, but I’m forever grateful.

I hope if you find yourself in need of help, you’re brave enough to seek it out. And that if the first time isn’t a good fit, that you’re bold enough to try again. And I hope that you find in someone the safety it takes to truly be able to show up authentically and work through the darker parts of yourself. We all have dark and light inside of us. It’s up to us to take responsibility to learn how to manage them in productive ways for ourselves. Some of us have more privilege in the resources to cultivate this management and balance between the two, as well as the grey area in between, and we won’t all have it figured out and perfect no matter what we do. But we can start where we are, with what we have, and we can begin to see life open up for us.

I truly believe what’s meant for me will find me, and the same for you, if we’re brave enough to live authentically. It’s difficult and ugly and painful sometimes, but it’s also beautiful and peaceful and safe. Both can be true.

(I learned that from my therapist)

If I ever do end up physically publishing anything, a lifelong dream of mine, you can bet your buttons she’ll have a dedication at the front of the book. Its the least I can do.

For a moment, I had entertained the idea of moving over to Substack from WordPress. It seemed the thing everyone else was doing, so maybe I should see what all the fuss is about, right? And then someone I follow pointed out how Substack allows Nazi’s to post on their platform, so I’ve decided that’s not for me, and I’m going to bring back here what I had taken there.

There are a few posts I made that I will post in order, then post new ones from there. I debated deleting my old posts and “starting fresh”, but I don’t really think that’s necessary. I’ve lived a lot of life since my last post on this blog almost 2 years ago, but a simple post can help catch everyone up, and then we can move forward.

The end of 2023/beginning of 2024 really felt like (another) turning point. There was so much I was feeling and couldn’t quite explain. I’d survived my first season working for the Ballet, which was intense to say the least, and I was finding new layers of myself I hadn’t known before and trying to sort out where everything belongs in the grand scheme of things.

In January 2024, I started therapy.
My insurance through work covers therapy, but you have to choose from their list of approved people for them to cover it. I was apprehensive, to say the least, given the town I live in. I’m born and raised here. I don’t know everyone, but everyone seems to know someone I know and word gets around fast. What’s more, the people who knew be in my “great before” seem to have missed the memo of who I am now, whether that be intentional omission, not paying attention, or the people in my life now having more discretion, I’m not sure, but I don’t mind it. It can just get a little awkward when people expect a certain version of me to be met with someone who is staunchly Not That. Not one to rock the boat, I don’t make a big song and pony show about it all, so it can be easy to miss if you’re not looking for more than what I can add to your life (versus actually knowing me as a person) and if you’re not safe I’m not about to go into any sort of detail of “How are you? How’s life?” more than I’d give to anyone else. Ironic for someone with a blog, but still. If you’re reading this, you’re either open minded or genuinely curious, and the nature of your curiosity is none of my business. No one’s forcing you to read this. You can click away and carry on with your life at any time. All this to say, I didn’t want a therapist that would either know the players in my story, nor would bring a certain religious opinion in to the session.

What I have found is the most perfect therapist for me. I didn’t really know going into it, based on some past experiences, that therapy was supposed to feel this safe. I knew it was supposed to be where you could say the things and receive the help or whatever. I have had one counselor before, ironically attached to a religious organization, who was the first to really make me feel like I wasn’t some hopeless lost cause that couldn’t amount to anything more than I was. She was wonderful, and I’m grateful for the work we did. Still, it wasn’t what I have found therapy to be this time. The person that I had seen (unintentionally) during Covid lockdown meant well, but wasn’t good for me. She brought in a lot of her own stuff and me, being an empathetic person who wants to make sure everyone is taken care of, ended up holding space for her as much as she for me. It wasn’t any big unloading on her part, but I can feel everything she was carrying, and that made it difficult for me to feel safe to give her my burden as well, even if it was her job. After three months she told me, “you have really good instincts, I don’t think there’s anything else I can do for you.” and what I wanted to reply with was, “okay, but I still want to die more often than I think a person should” but what I said was, “Okay, thank you.”

My therapist now is the boundary poster child, while still managing to be relatable. She is the safest person I’ve ever been around and is so damn good at her job I make sure to tell her as often as I can because I’m sure not everyone feels that way. People are people, after all. She’ll reassure me if and when I need it, but also won’t hesitate to call me out on my bullshit when necessary. I’ve seen exactly one tear fall from her eye, and that was the session after Honey died. Her expression of emotion and the radiating empathy showed me that I’m actually allowed to feel this loss. That dogs matter, sometimes more than people, and this wasn’t any small matter to be facing. After seeing that one tear, I went into, “oh gosh, are you okay?” mode and she promptly shut that down with, “This isn’t about me” and we carried on. I did ask the next session if she was okay, or if that was for me because I didn’t want to be presumptuous. She thanked me for asking, and said it was for me, and I told her how that made me realize all the things I’d realized about being allowed to feel because if my loss was enough to make my therapist cry, surely I was allowed to as well. Another layer peeled back on myself, revealing more things I didn’t know were there the whole time.

Recently, I’ve found myself keeping to myself more, which would have felt counterintuitive or even illegal to the me who was last writing here. Instead, I’m learning it’s not only allowed but encouraged. It’s a good thing to me to feel safe enough to keep to myself and know my world isn’t going to fall apart with my sadness. Emotions happen, and they’re allowed to, I’m going to be okay. I don’t have to tell other people about it to be safe. I’m safe with myself. I’m not a danger.

I, of course, am also not an island, and this doesn’t mean I don’t need people, on the contrary. We are such social beings we’re hardwired to need others. I still vent to friends or whatever, keeping them in the loop of the things that matter. It just means I don’t have to look to them to carry everything. I have my own two shoulders, and they’re strong, and some of this is stuff only I can carry. This is all done, thankfully, under the guise of my therapist and I am grateful every day for the privilege of knowing and working with her. How did I get so lucky to find her, first try even? All I did was look on our list of approved providers, paid attention to how each name made me feel, looked up websites, and called (after hours so I wouldn’t get an actual person, that’s too much). She actually lives about 4 hours from me, though she has an office here locally, but all the clients local to me are virtual. The best of both worlds–not here, but from here enough to know the places I’m talking about but not enough to know everyone I’m talking about. And even if she did know everyone I’m talking about she’s so good with boundaries that she won’t let on one bit. I’m learning this is how it’s supposed to be; who knew?

Now that it’s been a year and a half, I feel like I’m finally in a place where I can start writing again. I mean, I’ve never stopped. I journal and slap together stanzas I call “poetry” and what have you, but now I feel I’m in a place where I can write here again, in a more public setting and in a way that’s authentic without worrying about saying too much, or whatever. I don’t need this to be what holds the space for me; I’ve learned how to hold space for myself.

The next few posts will be from my Substack. I’ll put the publish date on them, so you can keep up with the timeline or whatever.

Thanks for coming along for the ride, I’m glad you’re here.

Category: Therapy

The weirdest thing my therapist has said to me

I’m back, here.