My Saving Grace is Called Therapy

It all started with anguish.

It was a typical Saturday afternoon. Puttering around the house and unwinding from the week. 

Just hours before I had watched my child smoosh a chocolate sprinkle donut into her little mouth. Moments like these always bring me foreboding joy. I take a mental snap shot before it is over in a flash.

The phone rings and it’s my mom. I answer jokingly, like she must have forgotten to tell me something since we had just spoken earlier that afternoon. She was solemn and said, “This is the worst thing I have ever had to tell you.” I was standing on the stairwell when she spoke, “your father is dead.” I can still hear my own guttural scream, “NOOOO!!!!!” As I landed in a puddle on the floor. 

That’s what anguish does. It’s this powerful explosion that permeates every cell of your being. In an instant it floods deep inside your bones and you have no choice but to crumble to the ground. 

Just months before that I had found myself running down the hallway of a condo building in search of a tourist to act as our photographer. Christmas 2018. The entire family flew out Colorado and rented a condo together. The knowing feeling that this would be the last time we would all be together hit me out of nowhere. I understood how important it was to capture this moment, all of us together one last time. 

On March 23, 2019 my premonition came true.  Dad had collapsed at work, his sister by his side. At 58 years old he died of a heart attack.

The next few weeks were dreary and surreal. Deep breathing through the fog of services and gatherings, photos and stories. Agonizing bouts of sobbing that seemed to never end. Puffy and raw, I slogged through the thick muck of it all. 

Once the rituals were over it was time to get back to Colorado, to get back to reality. I tried to stay busy, focus on work and keep moving forward, avoiding the agonizing quite where the anguish would creep in and steal my bones once again. 

Work became a whirlwind of stress and my patience wore thin. I no longer held the same compassion I used to for people’s petty problems. When life feels fleeting and temporary, the bull shit means nothing. I walked around holding back the huge lump that constantly sat in my throat. And once alone in the car or bathroom I’d let it all out. Silently screaming, crying in agony. 

At this point, I recognized I was struggling and needed some help, so I reached out to a counselor through work. I waited 2 weeks for a phone call, and gulped down tears as I explained my situation to the stranger on the line. I was given a link to some mindfulness videos and set up a time to talk the following week. Work stress continued to rise, on top of my grief and despair. The counselor listened through my sobs, and encouraged me to try blowing bubbles and taking deep breaths. I wanted to scream- “This isn’t working! Blowing bubbles isn’t going to help my inconsolable grief! I know how to fucking breathe! God, it’s the only thing keeping me moving.” 

By June I was a complete wreck. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I had hit my breaking point.  The closest I have ever come to wanting to end it all. I found myself frantically walking along the river, desperate to jump in and float away. It was all too heavy. I couldn’t go on. I needed everything to stop for a while, just so I could catch my breath. 

I left work and got on a plane to NY the next day.

For the next two weeks I surround myself with family and nature, and focused on healing. 

When I returned to Colorado in July, I met with a doctor for a referral to a local counselor I could see in person. At the first appointment I sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s office filling out a survey on my depression and anxiety symptoms. Seeing it all on paper made it real. An all encompassing notion that I was in deep. 

The therapist met me at the door and walked me through the winding hallways of the examination rooms to her office. Despite the tranquil decor, the air was heavy and she felt cold through her friendly smile. I had my guard up, uneasy and nervous. But I spilled my guts onto that thinly carpeted cement floor anyway, a giant flood of tears. She listened through tight lips, then began offering solutions. “Here, hold this rock, take a deep breath and feel grounded”. 

The next appointment we filled out a form to begin EMDR. I was game for anything that would help. We focused on the phone call from my mom as the traumatic event. I created a safe place in my mind, and envisioned sitting in a grove of trees at the lake. The following week we dove in. I held alternating buzzers in each hand as she asked me questions. I began describing the scenario in detail. Reliving my nightmare in slow motion. Watching myself in anguish. When it was over I envisioned sitting in my grove of trees to breathe. At the end of the session I felt lost, floating in a space between now and then. I felt the rawness of it all over again. It sunk deep into the aching hole inside my chest, and all I could do was curl into a ball and sleep. 

I showed up for my appointment the following week in a profound darkness. As I slid the stale dry erase marker down the page of the depression survey my eyes welled with tears. In the counselors office I told her it was a really rough week. She suggested maybe I should take some time off work, take a leave of absence. I was baffled! I wanted to scream,“I’m not here to fucking give up and sulk at home!” I left feeling pissed off, misunderstood and heartbroken. I decided not to go back and canceled the following appointment. 

5 months into grieving at this point, and I was positively desperate and hurting. Finding the right therapist was posing quite the challenge, and my strength was waning. 

That’s when a friend gave me the number of a therapist they knew in the area. 

I knew that very first session this was where I needed to be. She was warm and welcoming, bubbly and real. She felt so easy to talk to, I didn’t have to hold back or sugarcoat anything. I could yell, cry, swear and laugh. It was perfect. I knew I was in the right place, I had found the right person to walk next to me, to guide me on my healing journey.

We took several sessions to dive into my history, to get her up to speed with my life and how I ended up sitting here. She listened without trying to fix anything, without throwing solutions at me. Just let me vent and process, she sat in what I was feeling with me.  

For the next few months grief became something we dissected together. I felt like I had a riding partner on this nightmarish rollercoaster of emotions. And as new feelings and memories surfaced, we’d talk them til they turned blue. 

I wrote between sessions to process and explore. Sometimes just to get it out, to express the grief, let it flow. 

That winter I took a grief writing course which was monumental in my healing. Sharing grief with others going through the same thing. Learning how diverse grieving can be for each loss and each person. Transforming feelings into words, flowing sentences and paragraphs, they brought my dad back to life, they brought me back to myself. 

After the writing course ended I tried so hard to feel better. Playing hockey, practicing yoga, writing…but nothing really seemed to be working.

That’s when she got the white board out. She got all scientific about depression, serotonin, medication, and genetics. I sat there gritting my teeth, defensive and pissed. I wanted so badly to do this on my own, without meds. But I learned a ton in that session, and eventually decided to give it a try.

And thank God I did, because just when I got started on anti depressants, the pandemic took hold and blanketed my depression with anxiety. Just when I was about to survive an entire year on earth without my dad, the entire world shut down. Overnight we all went from warm hugs to complete isolation. Sickness and death permeated the air I was afraid to breathe. Anxiety induced heartburn and debilitating depression took hold. 

After I sobbed through my first Telehealth visit my therapist contacted the doctor to increase the dose. 

Lock down was hard. Questioning my every move, trying to stay sane, trying to run an office, a household, parent a kid, take care of myself. 

I survived Dad’s 1st death anniversary emotionless and numb, the only way my body knew I could. 

As time went on I slowly observed bits of motivation and purpose resurfacing from hibernation. That’s when my therapist so tactfully told me to, “Get off my ass and exercise!”  I was reluctant at first, but forced myself to do it anyway.

She was always so good at pushing me toward healing with exquisite timing and just the right amount of force. Sometimes, she’d even nudge just a little further, just cause she knew it’d hit a nerve, and I could handle it. I am determined even more than I am stubborn. And I was fucking determined to get better. 

2020 was a whirlwind but I got through it. I dealt with depression, stress and anxiety. My therapist was there by my side to sort through and process it all. To find pockets of peace and to let go of the illusion of control. I began to use mindfulness more and more, to recognize my thought patterns, to observe my body language and reactions. I found myself so often angry and frustrated. I was in a much better place as far as depression, but things were still not good. That’s when we began honing in on boundaries, on toxic relationships, on figuring out how to detach with love. 

By December I had done some serious shadow work to discover my sexuality hidden in the dark confines of my body. My therapist was nothing but supportive and encouraging. She taught me about the Johari Window. It blew my mind that I had buried an entire piece of myself I didn’t even know existed. This radical discovery motivated me to unpack everything I had shoved deep inside. 

I went on a mission to reclaim my own pleasure, to reframe from shame to enjoyment. I used mindfulness as a tool to stay present in my body, to observe and allow without judgement. Desire and attraction started flowing more freely as I began to accept myself fully.

In the early spring of 2021 I read Untamed. It was a life changing book at the exact time I needed it. Learning to listen to and question my inner dialog. Diving into where all this bullshit came from, and claiming my own true voice. I practiced listening to my inner knowing. Realizing I’m not a mess, the world is a fucked up mess and I’m trying so hard just to swim through it. 

This is when my therapist introduced Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. It gave me a framework to notice patterns in my thinking and reframe them. The shoulds, the worst case scenarios, the resentment, the unrealistic expectations. They all got examined under a microscope. I began listening to my needs and speaking up. Asking for help, saying no to things that did not resinate within me. I was finding lots of “not this” and then made millions of tiny motions toward the next right thing, uncertain in what that was, but trusting it would fall into place in time as long as I kept following my heart.

The realization that I had suffered from anxiety for forever was another Johari window discovery. I didn’t know my need for control and hyper vigilance was anxiety. My brain is always overthinking, anticipating, planning, worrying. 

Around the same time we talked about the drama triangle. I found I so often get pulled to fix but then I get sucked right into victimhood. I end up suffering, worrying about problems that are out of my control. I had to make a choice to break that cycle. 

The fact that some people never learn their lessons was a rough one to hear. Some people just keep making the same mistakes until they die. And no amount of worrying, praying or begging will change that.

My therapist then taught me that letting go doesn’t mean trusting people will learn their own lessons, it means meeting people exactly where they are. 

Great therapists do this crucial part so well. They sit back, patiently waiting to present pertinent information at just the right time, only when the client is ready and not a second sooner. Accepting their client where they are on their journey and not rushing them through it. 

By the end of 2021 I had stress free flexible employment that gave me back time to myself and time with my family. I had worked hard to create boundaries and build healthy relationships with the people in my life. I was able to implement everything I had learned over the past few years, bringing balance and joy to my life. 

Before dad died I thought I knew myself well, thought I reflected outwardly as I felt inwardly, thought I presented authentically. But I was beyond mistaken. I had shadows to face, fears and insecurities hiding just below the surface. 

Three years ago I cringed at the word pleasure. I grit my teeth in resentment while trudging through every “should” and “have to” I staked claim in. My mind all cluttered with critics and worries, I’d try to fight them back with positivity. I was striving so deeply to do my best, that I neglected to just be. 

I came to therapy at the end of my rope. Unable to carry the grief dropped upon my shoulders. Worn and ragged, desperate for change, for strength, for hope. 

It took a fuckton of uncomfortableness, and a hell of a lot of work to get here, and I never would have made it without my therapist. I am beyond grateful for her guidance and support, she gently nudged me along while I maneuvered through some really hard shit. 

I know this isn’t the end. There will always be something to work through, something to heal and lessons to learn. But therapy gave me the tools to do that. To continue growing. To weather any storm that comes my way.