"Here's a towel," you offer, not in so many words.
"It will absorb the spillover. There are ways to manage the pain."
Oh, but what is just a little puddle in your office — the trickle of pain I dare let out there — turns into a flow at home. The exploration, just even sitting in your presence, uncorks a fountain of longing, of heart-stabbing hurt.
In gushes, streams of pain puddle at my feet, and I'm suddenly sloshing in the mess. And I can't find the plug.
And all I have is 45 minute each week with which to absorb all this that pools up. All I have is some promise that self-compassion is supposed stem this flow. All I have is a plush towel that is soon a sodden mess and can absorb pain no longer.
Have you ever tried to sit in a flood, with water gushing around you, desperately clinging to a drenched towel that turns heavy in your hands?
When you gently release the plug, do you have a clue what it was that you are opening? Do you know even after I try to explain? I think that not. I think perhaps you do not know the depth of this particular well, how powerful the waves churning in the abyss.
And the water rushes about, the pain seeps into the foundation of my very self, eroding my bones, dripping in through the cracks of my soul, thoroughly drenching me.
And then when I come to you once again, shivering from the wetness and cold and the pain, and you offer me another towel, another layer of absorbancy, I don't even feel like reaching out to take it.
Because how will one measly towel keep me from drowning?