The Counselor's Couch, No. 4

Or, Some things you just can't outrun

A note on my “Counselor’s Couch” series: these short essays are simply my real-time processing, as honest and discerning as I can be in the present. Largely unpolished. They are behind a paywall because I save my more tender pieces for the safety of that space. I ask that you read these with that in mind. And as always, if my writing serves you in this season but you do not have the resources to financially support it, just send me a message. I’d love to make it available for you.

I move forward best when I write, so that is what I will continue to do. Thank you for the grace you’ve extended to me already by being here ♥️

I’m feeling relaxed today, if I’m honest. I’ve been visiting this office for five months now, and it all feels familiar, comfortable, like I know the rules. I know that the main door sticks just the tiniest bit when you try to open it, but I no longer feel rude when I occasionally use the force of my hip to do so. I know where to wait for my counselor to come and get me, and I know I’ll grab two wintergreen Lifesavers–one for now, one for after–from the small white candy dish as soon as I sit down. I know I need a pillow behind my back if my feet are going to touch the floor when I sit down on the gray couch. I know I’ll cry a little, maybe a lot, at some point, but that I will feel so much better when I do. And I know I’ll talk to a few friends on Voxer as soon as I leave, processing what I heard in real time with no filter, because they will help me make sense of it all. Better yet, they will validate everything; they will bear witness to my efforts to get better even if they cannot fully understand the wild ups and downs of it all. I had no idea how much I would need that, but every single time I drive away, I do need them: the people who bear witness. 

But today, we are covering a lot of ground, my counselor and I, and the relaxed feeling is giving way to the other feelings, the ones just underneath. I told my mom this morning as I was leaving her with the toddlers that, “I’m feeling really good, Mom. I think I may start going only every two to three months after today,” which is hilariously over-shooting the status of my heart because here we are, barely scratching the surface of things like anger, trust, seeing reality, controlling what I can control, and learning just because something happened once does not mean it will happen again. I’m crying and apologizing for crying, and swearing and apologizing for swearing, and it’s clear, I am definitely not quite ready to only work through these things every two to three months. 

My counselor smiles when I tell her I thought I could. Then she asks me this question, “You keep saying you want to be okay. Why do you think you need to be okay so badly?”