I am so very thankful for all the words of support I received about therapy. Your personal experiences, advice and simple words of encouragement (when no experience was had) were very moving. Some of you brought me to tears with your honesty, but everyone made me feel like I had just received a hug; truth be told: I felt all mushy inside. With that said, I just want everyone out there to know that I was not ashamed of my going to therapy, but rather scared to death of reliving everything, which of course I did.
When I arrived Saturday morning I walked into what seemed like someone’s home. There were two purple couches (they were actually a tasteful shade) soft music playing (jazz), the lights were dimmed and incense was burning. The bits of tension in me just melted away; I actually wanted to take a nappy nap. The psychologist was on his way back to his room when he saw me wondering around and I think I almost gave him a heart attack. Good impression right?
He looks like the stereotypical therapist. Late 60’s or early 70’s, plaid button down shirt, sweater vest, khakis, loafers, glasses, white hair and full beard. He sits me down and asked me why I was there. He took down a lot of notes (I gave him a lot to write). I told him about how wonderful Beefcake is, how I can’t stand his parents, needless to say I mentioned the girls and my recent ‘firing’ from last job. He was certainly taken aback by all I said.
Next my teens: Great student until I reached high school. I cut class because most of the students gave me hell for ‘talking like a white girl’, because I was well, educated I guess and um, not white. It was also an adjustment to go from Catho.lic school to pub.lic school.). I made friends that cut also (no surprise), tried drugs: coc.aine and w.eed; smoked a lot and liked to get drunk. Eventually, I got my act together and by the grace of God and a wonderful mentor in the form of an assistant principal who got me into the Princ.eton Revi.ew free of charge which led to a high S.A.T. score and a scholarship. Had she not had a genuine interest in me, God knows where I might be today… It also didn’t help that my uncle’s drug addiction was at it’s peak and he would steal and have hallucinations and pick fights with me, no that was not cool.
Childhood: Wonderful. There was love and support all around. My grandparents loved me to pieces and God Almighty do I wish that my grandfather, my Abuelito were alive today, he deserved to live 200 years not 79. My parents separated when I was 7 but boy did they infuse in me that I was loved. They never talked badly about each other in my presence nor did they fight in my presence. My dad is not in my life (good riddance) and my mother is the same wonderful mother to me now that she was then.
The lesson I left with:
When people diminish your loss or act like it didn’t happen or harp on you for having genuine valid emotions it’s about them. They can’t handle it (for a plethora of reasons) and rather than confront/accept/validate your emotions they must diminish the experience, i.e:
“You can have more…”
“At least you’re fertile…”
“Since she had problems (Emi), well at least she wasn’t born…” (HUH???)
“The miscarriage…” (Um, eh, no NOT a miscarriage – call it what it is – stillbirth and neonatal death assshole!)
And don’t EVEN get me started on these:
“God has a plan/a reason/works in mysterious ways…”
“It was meant to be…”
“If you pray this prayer/If you pray this way…/Did you pray often?…”
In the end, it’s far more about THEM than it is about you!