After ups and downs, climbs and falls, it feels like I finally reached a stable place in therapy. A place of hard-earned trust in this process. Even in my therapist. Something in me relaxed a tiny bit and the encounter lately has felt a little safer.
So now come the holidays.
If there are any other Tuesday clients like me, you know what this particular set of holidays brings with it. Well, lots — but from a therapy perspective... four full weeks off. I mean, to be very technical, four sessions off, which translates to a five-week therapy break.
So I stand at the precipice here and wonder. Should I even bother take in the sights here at the top when I know in just a matter of time I'll tumble down the cliff and into the abyss of having no faith in any of this?
Should I hold onto the wisps of caring I felt, when, give me a little more distance, and I will know beyond the shadow of doubt that no one in the world even cares.
Should I believe that therapy holds some hope for me, when it will all soon dissipate in a cloud of haziness and doubt?
How I wish I can just put this entire thing on hold and pick up in a few weeks where I am leaving off now. How I wish I can freeze my therapy self for the next few weeks and just continue from this point upon my return.
But it doesn't work that way. I know I'm in for a terrible fall. I know that soon I will be distrustful, pained. I know abandonment will soon crawl up on me and I'll feel like a fool for ever believing this process is beneficial at all.
I know that the bit of openness I have now will be locked up with doors of steel next time I face that chair again.
But I don't have patience to brace myself for the fall as I hover here at the cliffside knowing what's ahead of me.