I took my first steps towards a healthier mental state.
I am seeing a therapist.
This time, however, I am approaching things differently. I am actually going to stick with the sessions until I am really in a better place. My prior attempt at therapy saw me quit once we tried to address the big issue, the fact that I never grieved for my mom. Almost 20 years later, I have never really grieved. I shut all my emotions away into a box and tried to move on.
That box is now overflowing with poison.
I have been in a really bad place for a long time… A LONG TIME. I know how to look like I am happy. I know how to wear the biggest and brightest smile. I can listen intently to others and help them through their roughest times. I don’t talk to anyone about how I am feeling inside. I don’t take care of me. It’s beginning to show. There are cracks in the facade I have spent so long perfecting. I hurt.
So here I am, seeing a therapist for the second time in my life. Within the first session, he picked up on the one thing I continuously hide, I am afraid of being vulnerable. The fear of vulnerability is what has kept me from feeling the pain I needed to feel so I could start to truly move on.
I am afraid of my own tears. I am afraid of being weak. I am afraid of my emotions. I feel like if I grieve I have to really accept that she is gone. It makes it real. 20 years later, I still don’t want it to be real.
I still carry a lot of guilt related to her death. I somehow hold myself responsible. I still feel like I should have done something more.
I was 16. It was cancers fault. Yet, I still continue to take the blame.
For my first “assignment”, I had to write a letter to my mom telling her all the things I feel like I haven’t been able to say.
THAT WAS ROUGH!
It hurt. It hurt horribly. I put it off for as long as I could. I was afraid I wouldn’t know what to say. However, once the pen started moving, I filled up four pages front and back. I finally let it out. I cried. I sobbed as I was writing. It was a deep, retching pain. I could barely see through the tears.
I felt so weak.
I know it needed to be done. I have to open Pandora’s box. I have to start pulling out all of these emotions and deal with them one by one. I can’t grow like this.
I read the letter to my therapist. He listened and picked up on all the guilt I am feeling. We talked about it. I now have another assignment. I have to write a letter from her telling me the things I believe she would want me to know.
Here come the tears again.