It’s been a really long while, but believe it or not, I’m still here behind the screen ruminating about therapy. Still sitting on that grueling chair in a haze of uncertainty.
If only I wouldn’t be so hypersensitive. If only I wouldn’t care so much about every word my therapist says — or doesn’t say. If only I would just let our interactions slide and not overthink and rethink and let her words that I took wrongly be daggers to my heart.
If only therapy wouldn’t hurt so much.
What is it about this weird relationship that makes every word, every interaction — every ignored cry (or whisper) for help, for validation — so weighty?
If only I wouldn’t care about her. If only I wouldn’t let her mean so much to me. It’s not fair that a person to whom I’m just a tiny sliver of their week — that that person should loom so big and great in my mind, but even more in my heart.
That my chest should thump painfully because I feel unheard.
That I should never want to face her again because I know that this hurt lies between us like a brick wall, but only one of us sees the wall — me. She doesn’t even know it’s there as she blissfully tries new approaches and enjoys the progress she sees.
She doesn’t even seem to realize that most of my doors are closed. And maybe that’s what bothers me most of all. She won’t see my hurt unless I spell it out clearly.
But I refuse to.
I am done feeling like such a burden, such an uber-sensitive soul that takes issue with every single nuance. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to show this vulnerable, tender, sensitive part of me.
I want to show her the macho part I show the world. Because that’s so much safer.
Then misattunements don’t hurt so much and I’m not left floundering wondering how I can continue on this thorny path.
P.S. Did you check out Malky Sicherman's new song Little Girl? It's on the music page!