Therapy

I think I scared some people with my last post. Eek! That is hard for me because for a moment I let myself fall into doubt. Is it too much? Am I too much? I feel like reassuring everyone, making my fear and darkness lighter, smaller. And then I gently remind myself that too much or not, it is true for me and feels worth sharing. And I remind myself that I do not have control over how other people respond to what I write. And then I let myself feel the depth of people's love and concern for me and I bask in it, feel grateful for it and come back to the page.

I will say that for me to write something like my last essay means I am no longer in that place. I've passed through it and I feel lighter and ready to share it because often when I do someone else is helped by knowing they are not alone. And that's why I believe God and She and the Universe give us grief and pain, but not all at the same time. So that there is always someone who can stand still and strong and hold my hand when I need it, to help me be ready to stand still and strong when someone else needs it.

In my deepest self I am more than ok. I am awake and interested and so very glad to be living this life. Yes, I do struggle with depression and anxiety. Often the path I am walking is not an easy one. I know I am not alone in that. But I am also so held. I have found people who are travelling similar paths with similar interest and commitment. I see how I want to travel even as I'm not sure where I'm going and even as I sometimes very much wish that I could just arrive already.

My first significant therapy experience began when I was 33. My best male friend, someone I love deeply and who surprises me with how well he knows me, suggested, not too gently, that I talk to someone about my issues. He is not known for his tact. I had tried therapy and hadn't loved it, mostly because I felt like I was trying to get the answers right. I felt tired in advanced by the idea of trying to find the right practitioner. At a party an old friend recommended her therapist to me. That's how I met Ame, a Hakomi practitioner. Hakomi is a body-centered approach and those sessions were really the first time I was invited to drop down into my body, to pay attention to how my actual physical body felt. I wasn't just talking about emotions, I was being asked to notice the sensations in my feet, my belly, my shoulders, when we talked about something or when she asked me to sit quietly and observe. It was hard as hell. Not just because my mind was always jumpy but because the response from my body was so very faint. I wanted to get the answer right and my mind would leap to the occasion, guessing how my belly might feel while talking about something that scared me. But when I quieted my mind, I often felt. . . nothing. Ame would take me through exercises of feeling my feet on the floor, feeling my butt in the chair, feeling my back against the cushion. I could feel the floor, but not my feet. I could feel the couch, but not my butt. It was like I didn't exist except for in my head. After many attempts she, my body, started giving me little, quiet murmurings--like a tiny little mouse peeking out of a long-inhabited cave. Whispers so faint that I wasn't sure they were there at first. And what she was saying to me made me cry because my poor body was so grateful to finally be asked. She wanted to talk and sing and yell and she didn't trust me one bit to actually keep listening.

In one of our sessions I talked to Ame about my years' long experience of feeling like two different people. On some days, I said, I felt light and open and happy. On those days I was energized and awake and could easily see the signs the Universe was giving me, telling me "Yes! You're on the right track. Keep going!" I loved those days. On the other days I felt heavy and dark and blocked up. I wanted to hide and be quiet and binge watch TV. I hated those days. I told her I tried to pay attention on those good days to make note of everything I'd done, what I'd eaten, if I'd exercised, so that I could try to have those days every day. I even said I was thinking I should keep better track of my cycle so I could see if there was a pattern.

She didn't exactly dismiss me but she essentially said that it was impossible to feel the same way all the time and that neither type of day was good or bad. I didn't have two selves, I was all the same self. She wanted to focus on my strong certainty that some feelings were good while others were bad. This was important because I did, and still do, fall easily into the belief that there is a right way and a wrong way of doing everything. I thought, deeply believed, that there were good things about me and bad things about me and therefore the obvious goal was to rid myself of the bad things, even if some of those things made me feel good sometimes. Ame introduced me to the idea of trying to see the voice in my head as an observer, rather than a judge. To notice things rather than proclaim what each thing meant. My time with her was profound and helpful and, as I know now, just the beginning.