With each scheduled appointment, I felt like my anxiety was at an all time high. I refused to admit that along with the little scenarios I was sorting out in my head, a trail of depression was also trying to make up for missed time. There I was again, shuffling between the tight rows of stained chairs – trying to pretend like I had my shit together. My fingers created an uncontrollable sweat, making it that much harder to conceal my agitation. In the short time it took to make my way into her office, my armpits had already discolored my shirt and made it extremely noticeable that yes… I very well was floundering about into the shallow hallways, but NO – I did not want any help.
Our session began at 11:00 – sharp – every other day. “What’s on your mind today?” An awkward silence thrusted into my chest and put a stop to the words that were pouring out of my mind. There was so much that needed to be expressed but I feared the opinions she was beginning to form, even when she swore that she understood why I was struggling. The effort she made to compare our situations was an uncontrollable clutter of distraction. With every concern I communicated, she backed it up using a story of her own. I KNEW that what I was going through was normal. I KNOW you’ve been through the same things. But what she DIDN’T know was what I craved the most – for her to just listen to what I had to say. Just once I wanted someone to allow me to cry, scream, laugh – sometimes all at once – without feeling the need to interrupt me with their own knowledge of the situation. I was allowing myself to be selfish… something that was way past due yet well-deserved. I wasn’t going to put a stop it to – not this time.
I could almost hear the ticking of the clock become louder, as a reminder that our time was almost up. My daughter sat in my lap during the entire session, otherwise she would’ve cried and heightened the intensity of my sweat. Putting her back in the car seat was another strike at my anxieties – one day she loved the calmness of the car ride, another day she’ll flip a switch and scream the whole way home. I begged her, internally, to allow me to drive in the silence of my own breathe. It became routine for me to meditate… something I truly wanted to know more about. But by focusing on the sounds and strength of my breathing, the availability to concentrate on something else was nonexistent. I gathered my things, ready to charge out of that scorching office, until she held me back wanting to shed some light on another topic.
M e d i c a t i o n.
I glanced over my shoulder as if she were talking to someone else – not a soul. I was disappointed in myself. All of the progress I thought I made had quickly vanished without a trace. I couldn’t help but listen to that voice in my head, the one who was an expert in convincing me that I was always wrong. How could I allow myself to settle for something as simple as taking a pill? What did this mean – was I just truly going insane? A list was being made right there in my head, you could see the tension in my eyes. I was officially an unfit mother, at least that’s what I convinced myself of… one that needed an extra push to finish the mile. I felt weak in my knees – so I allowed that wave of heat to push me over to that seat… once again. Within seconds it went from a seat holding a bright future for me, to one that left me feeling lost at sea. I was drowning – again – not sure if I wanted any help.
My therapist shared her concerns with an honest tongue. She became intensely vocal – for she just wanted me to understand the reason for her offers. It was up to me, of course, whether or not I wanted to bite the bait. Majority of me wanted to feel better… wanted to get through one day without crying or forcefully telling myself that I was a failure at this whole motherhood craze. In order for me to achieve that, I needed to learn a new type of convincing – one that would convey the normal ness of this new path.
Eventually I would get there, but it took a lot more convincing than I thought.
Face to face with a new journey – pencil in hand, awaiting to reveal the process at large.
Do I bite the bullet? Should I?