Therapy Session 1

She sat across from me as I tried to settle on the brown leather couch. I was a little unsure of where to sit, but I figured in all the therapy sessions I’d witnessed on TV or experienced myself had involved the patients on the couches – so I went with that. She had blonde hair cut at her shoulders, kind eyes, and a friendly voice. I handed her the paperwork that chronicled my list of issues and she started to ask me what brought me to therapy, where I wanted this to go, etc. After a while of mumbling my way through the session, feeling like I couldn’t explain anything clearly to a wall, let alone a counselor, I fell silent.

“Next week, we’re going to talk a little bit more about your history, family and relationships.”

Apparently I look as terrified as I feel, because she pauses, then asks if that makes me nervous or feel stressed.

“Of course it does. I shelve things I don’t want to think about and try to move on. Of course I don’t want to re-experience certain things, but I know that I need to. I’m just not exactly looking forward to it.” The truth was, I was trying so hard not to let tears slip down my cheeks. Why was I about to cry? It’s a relatively rare occurrence, and it almost never happens in front of strangers. And she was a stranger.

“This won’t be easy. If it gets too stressful, then we can stop and work in that moment… I just encourage you to see this through to the end. You’re choosing to deal with life, rather than just treating the symptoms. You might re-experience feelings that are hard and unpleasant. This won’t be easy.”

“I know. But I’d rather work through it.”

“Oh, on your form you mentioned feelings of worthlessness. Tell me about that.”

“I mean, I never know what to put on those things. I guess I just don’t like myself. I mean, sometimes I do, but most of the time I don’t. I look in the mirror and just see everything that’s wrong, but I know it’s not just a physical problem. I still thought I was fat when I was 96lbs, so I know there’s more to it. I guess I just don’t see what’s to love. I don’t know how to receive love. And I know that when you’re not at home in love, you can’t really love others in a healthy way. There’s always this subconscious taking from them – like a leech, because you need them to feel better about yourself.”

“So if I’m hearing you right, you find it difficult to receive and extend love.”

“I mean, I think I’m thoughtful. I have people that I love in my life. I love people. I just don’t understand why they would love me. I don’t get what all the hype is about, if that makes sense. I also don’t know how I can have such low self-esteem and yet be so prideful." I paused. "I feel like a nut case…”

“Trust me, if I put you in a group of recovering perfectionists, you’d fit right in.”

I let out a short laugh, “Well that’s comforting, I guess.”

“It’s true. Okay. So I’ll see you next week.”

“Thanks for meeting with me.”

“It was nice meeting you.”

I opened my car door and sunk into the seat. Gripping the steering wheel, I couldn’t understand why I had this strong desire to cry. To break. If I was back at home there would be half a dozen places I knew I could go to just to weep, but here in this semi-new city, I couldn’t think of anywhere solitary and safe to escape. I turned the key in the ignition and my car came to life. Merging onto   I-65, confessions of fear poured from my lips, followed by a prayer for help, for restoration, for healing.

And so it had begun…

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catching up

Goodness! I knew it had been a while since I’d posted, and I knew I’d been incredibly busy, but since February? Really? I guess I should catch up. The last half of February and all of March were full of overtime, in-services, and a lot of Airborne.

I now know the definition of being burnt out. When I got home, I was so exhausted; so tired of needy patients with unrealistic expectations – those who confused “Nurse” with “Slave” or “Waitress” and “Hospital” with “5 Star Hotel” or “All-Inclusive Resort.” I’m generally not a violent person, but I knew when I walked out of a patients room, having fought a strong desire to hit her, I needed a break.

Towards the end of March I was able to get a week off and visit my lovely friend Autumn in Athens for a night on my way home. Being in Athens was so sweet. It’s a place that represents healing for me in many ways. I remember escaping my sophomore year for a weekend and receiving nothing but encouragement, love, and truth – even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear at the time. I’ve adopted some of Autumn’s friends as my own, and whether they realize it or not, they challenge my view of Father God and the Spirit every time I encounter them.

It’s a long drive from Nashville to home – just in case you were wondering. I never thought of myself as having any bit of ADD in me, but that drive makes me itch. I stopped often, just to stretch my legs, but it was never enough. I was stuck somewhere between wanting to just stop and expend some physical energy and toughing it out just to get home faster. I can’t tell you how excited I was to hit that familiar dirt road, see my pups running up our driveway, and pulling in to the sight of my mom and brothers working in the yard and washing cars. Home.

I spent about five days at home. I was blessed to see all of my family and celebrate my precious Aunt Christa’s birthday. Also blessed to sit down with a family friend, who happens to be a gifted financial planner, and glean from his wisdom. A deep tissue massage, two of Chandler’s soccer games, and having all six of us home at once didn’t hurt either. It was just what I needed before heading back to a slammed work week. April was ushered in amidst four 12 hour shifts in a row, and just like that, March was gone.

I bought some new porch furniture. Nothing fancy, just a small table and two chairs, and little lantern lights, but I’ve turned it into my own small oasis (forgetting that the parking lot is only four feet from me helps). The sunny and seventy degree weather has been like balm on my soul, and sporadic thunderstorms like icing on top of a cake. I’ve devoured a couple of books since I’ve come back to Nashville, too. I caved and started The Hunger Games, of which I’m now officially addicted, and I also indulged in the cheesiness that is Nicholas Sparks’ The Lucky One.  I’ve decided that each time I read his stuff, I’m angry towards the end (that I called from the beginning), but I should give him credit because this one was better than the last one I read. I try not to think of how my taste in literature has fallen, but these books were like a vacation, probably because they were written for teenage girls. I’ve realized what a romantic I am at heart – not necessarily a lover or believer in fairy tales, but a romantic nonetheless. Maybe hopelessly so.

I ran for the first time today in a rather long time. My legs felt like Jell-O as I struggled to keep them up under me. I decided to go with some intervals instead of my standard 2 mile jog, mainly because I didn’t think I could handle that much running. It felt good to say hello to that familiar rhythm again, and really good to eat spaghetti for dinner with complete freedom.

So there you have it. I’m imagining you on the other side of my porch table, where my candle sits burning brightly, sharing a cup of Kava root tea (it’s supposed to be a good stress reliever) with me. I realize that, in all likelihood, you don’t care too much about the book I’m reading or what I ate for dinner, but these little details have comprised my life for the past few weeks. However, there are times when I find that sharing these little details is more difficult and makes me more vulnerable than talking about any number of “deeper” things, because they’re real. It’s a way to invite you into my humanity.

The tea is good, by the way.

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