I knew I wanted to write about a mental move, one that seemed so small that it would be inconsequential, but ended up having a positive impact on my life.
Enter therapy.
I was pretty open about going with people around me. I didn't try to hide it. I didn't feel ashamed of it. I did get a lot of surprised reactions:
Why do you need therapy? You have it all together!
What? Therapy? What do you have to complain about? Your life is pretty great.
I'm surprised you need therapy. You don't act like you would.
Don't you have friends you can talk to?
I didn't really want to explain myself, but inside I ticked off my answers:
Yes, I am a fairly together person.
Having problems doesn't mean you're a complainer.
I'm so glad I can fake it well enough, but not everyone who seeks therapy has serious mental health issues. That's precisely what I'm trying to avoid.
And, yes, I have a fantastically supportive web of friends and family who will gladly listen to me. But, I don't always want to burden them with that. Plus, I want an objective perspective.
I grew up in an environment where issues stayed "in house" and where "handing it over to God" was the modus operandi, even though my father worked in the social work and mental health arena. Stoicism reigned supreme. Worrying was a sign you didn't have enough faith; crying and falling apart was quickly shut down. I'm not bemoaning the way I was raised or laying blame on my parents for anything. They did what they knew to do at the time. I turned out OK, so why complain? I'm also not going to pretend I didn't gain some pretty solid coping skills from that upbringing, but I also internalized some pretty damaging coping mechanisms. The latter is what therapy helped me recognize and overcome.
Here is what I have learned: There is a monumental difference between sucking it up in the moment and processing later versus squashing your emotions permanently, denying their validity. Therapy has taught me those emotions will bubble--sometimes explode--to the surface eventually. Life has taught me those moments usually occur at really inconvenient times.
I cried that day I reached out to the therapist to set my first appointment. I'm crying just remembering that moment. It was such a relief to finally allow myself to reach out for help. I knew there were things I need to work on: my self-diagnosed martyr complex being at the top of my list followed by being anxious about things out of my control, getting angry over inconsequential things, not knowing how to handle aging parents, not knowing how to be empathetic without taking on the weight of the world, and not knowing how to remove myself from situations and mindsets that no longer fulfilled or served me.
I cried a lot during the first dozen or so sessions, but I did my best not to. That little voice, Don't be a big baby, chided me as I felt the tears well up. It was the question posed by my therapist, Why do you always suppress your tears? that gave me permission to let them flow.
Why indeed. She taught me tears are cleansing, tears are soothing, tears allow you to comfort yourself, tears allow that release that begins the path to healing. She taught me that path is frequently rocky, but to enjoy the smooth sections.
She also reinforced what I suspected about myself all along: I'm a very self-aware and reflective person. I just needed to harness those characteristics and allow them to guide me down a more positive path. Instead of reflecting on all the things I don't like about myself, I can now recognize them without letting them define me. I can focus on my strengths and admit my weaknesses without shame or blame. It's so incredibly freeing.
That one small step--picking up the phone and dialing a number--changed my life in so many ways. And, now, I'm moving toward a better version of myself.
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