A while back I had my first therapy session since college. I actually wrote a blog post about it that I didn’t publish. Something along the lines of “today I emotionally vomited all over a therapist. And she didn’t even flinch. She’s a keeper.” But I wanted to wait. I was kind of wrecked and had other things I needed to focus on.
And now, whenever I go to therapy, I come back on these post-therapy highs. A feeling similar to locking myself in the bathroom for an hour and walking out with the lightness of having taken a big dump. So crude, I know, but what happens in therapy is not pretty. I think boy pities me slightly when I come home. He hugs me, gives me a cookie, tells me he likes me. And while I think it’s the pity he feels for seeing me come home afterward very puffy-eyed while also sporting a big grin on my face, it’s also an appreciation that I am now paying someone to take my crazy out on instead of using him. But either way, I get a cookie.
And somewhere in the first session, where I was nervous as hell, sweating, even a little shaky, something happened. I said stuff I had never told anyone. I said stuff aloud that I had never spoken. And I heard what I was saying. And in the first 10 minutes of me talking, 9 minutes after the tears broke free from my eyes, I realized every single day I walk around covering up my fears because I don’t want people to see them. And NO FRICKIN’ WONDER I was feeling a little crazy carrying all that around.
And here’s where my dad would say in full Jungian philosophy “honey, you just think you’re covering up all of your fears when really they’re more obvious to everyone around you than you think. You’re the only one hiding from them.” Well Daddy, you’re right.