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  • Writer's pictureMelissa

The Problem With Gray

The problem with this therapy thing is that I can never comfortably ensconce myself in a clear train of thought. I’m always stuck straddling the fence.

I’m not here, not there. I’m being pulled in both directions. Don’t trust. This is bad, grasps me in a chokehold. And as soon as I try to make myself comfortable there, I get pulled in the other direction: Hey… maybe you should not throw all of this out.

If only I could stay in the don’t-trust-this camp! It may be sad and painful, but it’s safe in the way it is so clear. I can learn to live there, cut my losses, and build a life around the hole.

A year ago, or even more recently, I used to be able to take up residence right there in distrust and not have anyone bother me. But lately, even though everything seems to warn me not to trust — and the proof is all over, especially in this pain and dread that I sit in all week — the memories of the times my therapist was able to break through my resistance and show me a new way of thinking, as well as the combinations of the micro experiences that so stubbornly foster trust start to counter my thoughts.

Arghh. Go away.

Because when I have to consider all of it, the reasons I do not, and will not, trust — and yet also take into account the trust already fostered, it leaves me in the excruciating place of…. Gray.

I like black and white.

Oh, I’ve been accused of binary thinking by, well, many people.

But I like binary.

I don’t like gray. I don’t like being in a place where you can trust her — but no, you can't trust that she will always understand you fully or be in a position to get you in the way you need to be understood.

Gray is hazy. Gray is unsure. Gray is insecure. Gray is not determinate. Gray is knowing that I don’t know and I won’t know and yet I have to continue anyway.

Gray is saying yes to living with crippling doubt. Gray is sitting on a swing that’s constantly moving, like a pendulum, and bracing myself for the ride.

It’s maybe trying not to brace myself but to lean into the ride. But I can’t.

Gray is not stable.

I prefer black. As depressing as it is, it’s still secure. And white. Though I see so little of that in my life.

I think I’ll take the heavy depressiveness of black over the ungrounded murkiness of gray.

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