Therapy is My Jam

When I started therapy four months ago, I really wasn't sure what to expect from it. I was well overdue to start treatment but was resistant to making an appointment. I have a hard time talking to strangers and an even more difficult time addressing my feelings. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to someone I didn't know about the thoughts and emotions that had consumed my life. 

Prior to making my first appointment, she and I spoke for nearly an hour on the phone. She asked a lot of questions, listened intently and agreed to take me on as a patient. But there was a condition - thinking about or attempting suicide needed to be taken off the table. When I feel the thoughts of worthlessness and hopelessness start to pour in, I had to promise to find a way to overcome them using the tools I've been given before. Anything from taking a moment to pause and breathe to taking a walk by myself to reaching out to a friend. If I wasn't willing to do those things, she wasn't going to see me.

I don't know if this is her way or a normal thing that therapists do, but after talking to her and sharing my history and where I was at the time, I felt comfortable enough with her to make that promise. This agreement, in no way, was a guarantee that those thoughts would not arise again, and it didn't mean she wouldn't help me through them. It just meant that if she was going to invest in me, I needed to be willing to work and not go for the easy way out.

We made an appointment for the following week. My comfort level going in was somewhere in the middle. I knew I'd be able to talk to her but I'd never done one-on-one therapy. The only therapy I'd ever had, in fact, was almost twenty years ago, short term and in a group setting. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. Is it like an interview and I answer questions for an hour? Is it a back-and-forth exchange? Do I just start word vomiting? I had no idea. 

She made it easy and started by asking about basic things - family dynamic as a child and family dynamic now, what close personal relationships I have, special interests, and so on. We discussed a friendship that I'd watch dissolve about six months prior and that was the end of session one. FYI - if you're my friend, she probably knows your name.

As the weeks went on, the topics became more sensitive and tougher to navigate. I was there to get out of this pit of depression I'd found myself in following my dad's death. I was there to learn how to become more assertive and communicate better. I didn't go to figure out why I hated myself, why I had trouble trusting people and relationships, why I never felt good enough or worthy. But this is where we are and how therapy became my jam. What I thought was something that was meant to fix me and help me move forward had somehow become something that got in my way.

I'm not saying I feel trapped by therapy, because I don't. I love my therapist, even more so after she told me she likes when I'm oppositional! I just didn't expect to find myself in a place, after four months, where it feels like I've made little to no progress. 

I've come out of almost every session completely exhausted and most times we've only touched on one or two subjects. I understand the reason for taking it slow and not trying to conquer it all at once. But week after week of having no real idea of whether or not it's working is frustrating. I'm a person who likes to see immediate, tangible results. I have used the comparison that maybe the progress I see myself making is like watching my own child grow - I don't notice it because I see it all the time. In a time when we aren't isolated from others, I'd be able to ask others if they've noticed anything. But the only regular human connection I have outside of my family that I live with is on Zoom. Yes, you can form real relationships on virtual platforms and some of my dearest friends have come via Zoom since quarantine began in March and through social media. But is this really the best way to gauge progress?

I knew going into my first appointment that overcoming nearly four decades of this pattern of thinking wasn't going to be quick or easy. She told me over the phone to expect a minimum of six months to a year of treatment, with sessions being weekly. That seemed like a really long time estimate in May, but at four months in, I'm not sure it's going to be anywhere near enough.

I am also aware and okay with one thing not being the fix-all for a problem. In addition to therapy, I have been working with a mentor. Between the two of them, I'm spending a lot of time doing homework that often includes writing but always involves introspection. I don't enjoy any of it, to be honest. But I know that working outside of therapy sessions is necessary. If I only devoted an hour a week to fixing myself, a self that's been broken for 40 years, I'd be dead before I made any progress at all. 

While this work is not fun or easy, I know when I do it that it is being suggested by someone who cares about me and my wellness. I've spent the majority of my life wondering if anyone would ever come along that truly cared for me. I know they care because they hold me accountable and tell me they're proud of me, but they also extend grace when I mess up. 

I started taking medication about three months ago, and this is the first time I've ever had someone that's properly managed it. Finding the right medication and the right dose is a lot of trial and error, and without someone to monitor it, finding the right fit can take even longer. I started on a low dose and after dealing with a few minor side effects for a week or so, but generally tolerating it well, we gradually increased the dose. It seemed it was improving my overall mood and the dark thoughts faded for a while. But now I'm starting to see myself where I was when I started therapy, and I'm not sure this medication is the right one. Being on a medication for three months only to find I have to start over with something else is discouraging and only adds to my frustration. 

One of the first things my therapist said to me that it was sad that in all of the years I've battled depression, I've never had individual therapy or properly managed medication. She followed that by saying "that means there is a reason to hope. We have another option." Seeing a situation from a different perspective is one of the greatest lessons I've learned from working with a therapist and a mentor. If I can learn to do that in all things, I can beat this battle. I can win this war. I can change these broken patterns.

Perhaps my true frustrations with therapy aren't from therapy at all but from my own skepticism. I don't trust people, even the ones that have never let me down. I don't trust processes, even the ones that are new and untried. I don't trust the possibility of progress taking place when there is nothing to prove to me that it has.

 

(no body)

In the few weeks immediately following my father's death in April, my sister and I exchanged a series of emails with the Indiana National Guard to obtain my father's service and discharge info. A lot of the emails she sent were attachment only and no text, and when the message came through it said "(no body)." I chuckled a bit at the irony because he was already deceased. I also cringed a bit because he had been cremated and there was, in fact, no body. Apologies for the morbidity, but that's my sense of humor!

Though I've dealt with my fair share of losing loved ones, none hit me harder than the loss of my father. He and I were very close, despite living hundreds of miles apart for most of my life. He always kept in touch, by phone call mostly. When he lived nearby, we spent a lot of time with him. I remember sitting in an upstairs room, that somehow became our designated play area, playing a Harlem Globetrotters board game, creating Spirograph drawings and sticking and resticking images to Colorforms. He frequently took us camping or to my grandparents' house where we got to visit with our cousins and fight over who got to sleep in the cold room or butter toast the next morning. 

We spent numerous hours at screenprinting shops where he worked as an artist, inhaling an overwhelming amount of paint fumes that at some point became comforting. I remember meeting Bob and Tom, the nationally syndicated morning radio show hosts, and thinking their car was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. I don't know the model but one side was painted solid pink and the other side was camouflage. 

We took our first airplane ride when he moved to Georgia and knowing how much he hated to fly, I'm sure he was pacing and cursing the entire time he waited for us to arrive safely. Although he didn't enjoy flying himself, he always had a deep love for airplanes, mostly older ones. He told me once he had gone skydiving with some friends. I remember asking if he didn't like flying, why would he do that? He said it wasn't the flying that scared him. It was the taking off and landing that made him uncomfortable. I considered this and I don't know if he knew some stats that indicated those two times were less safe than airtime, but it made sense. When I turned 18, he took me skydiving and it will always be an unforgettable experience.

After he moved to North Carolina, I was in college, becoming an adult, getting married and having kids, and the visits became less frequent. It was more difficult for us to travel because of the extra considerations of having three kids to manage. He was getting older, still hated to fly, and the long car rides became tiring. But we never lost contact. 

We started talking more often on the phone and our bond grew even more with our shared love of football. I hadn't realized until this time he loved the Indianapolis Colts, and being an Indy native and lifelong resident, they became my natural choice of who to root for. I can't speak for him and when he started cheering for his local team the Carolina Panthers but for me it was when they drafted Luke Kuechly. I just thought he was cute. No other reason. But it gave my dad and I yet another thing we could talk about and bond over. 

Him being in North Carolina also meant I wouldn't have to search around for Panthers gear. He would be out and pick up things as he saw them and shortly after, I'd find a package on my doorstep. I remember one year he bought me a black Kuechly jersey within a few days of my husband buying me a white one. 

These tangible, though small and seemingly insignificant times, become the most special after someone passes. But even after they've died, when there is no physical body that we can see, smell and touch, we are reminded that they aren't really gone. What is a body anyway except a medium that allows us to experience life on Earth? Because the true person is not a body at all but what's inside their heart, their mind, their soul.

I've been having trouble sleeping for some time and the weeks following my dad's death were no exception. Two weeks after he died, I had a dream about him. He walked into a small room, one much like you'd find in a nursing home, and sat in a chair and began to tell a story. I don't remember the specific details of the story but I remember his voice. It was in the dream as it was in real life. When I heard his voice, I sat up and asked if he was really there. He stood up, walked across the room and sat beside me on the bed. He was wearing a yellow t-shirt, cargo shorts and his signature fishing hat, and he looked as healthy as I'd ever seen him. He said he was visiting the people he loved and I asked if he was okay. His response was short but enough. He said "it's beautiful here." 

A couple days later, my cousin stopped by with a small gift bag. Beneath the tissue paper, I found a small album of photos she'd put together of my dad and a small figure of a bird on a rock. My dad was a nature lover and he had an abundance of bird feeders in the yard of every house he lived in. The tricky part was keeping the squirrels out. Across the bottom of the rock were the words "life is beautiful." My cousin hadn't yet heard about my dream and there was absolutely no way she could have known what he said to me, unless he'd also visited her.

When my sister and I prepared to drive to North Carolina to go through his belongings, we went to the airport to pick up a rental car. When we left, there was the full arch of a rainbow across the sky. I've seen many rainbows and some double rainbows, but this was the first time I'd ever seen a complete arch. I had promised to call my mentor before we left town to check in and was ready to call her after witnessing this amazing sight. I picked up my phone and there was a notification of a text from her asking if it was a good time to talk. 

When we got to my dad's a couple days later, within minutes of our arrival, a cardinal settled on the railing of the front porch. At one point in the evening, with emotions running high and exhaustion beginning to settle in, I sat alone on the back porch of his home and a deer casually walked into his yard. 

To honor his memory and his love of nature, on Father's Day this year we planted a tree in our back yard. I do not have even a hint of a green thumb so I needed something low maintenance. I found one whose primary demand was a lot of water. Before I had even covered its spot back over with the dirt and mulch, rain began to fall. I finished up and when I returned inside, I saw a cardinal hovering around it. 

A couple weeks ago, I settled into my space in the garage for a weekly Zoom chat. I'd been having a series of dreams in the days prior that each featured a different car my dad had once owned. I was ready to share these dreams and what they meant to me with my friends and within 30 seconds of sitting down, another cardinal arrived. It didn't stay long, only as long as I needed to spot it, but he was there.

Along with his love of baseball, football, nature and art, he also had an appreciation and compassion for Native Americans. He made regular contributions to help preserve their reservations. As a thank you, he'd receive small items and trinkets in the mail. Sometimes they were blankets or books; other times it was mailing labels, dream catchers and small toys the children had made. He smiled at all of it, and held on to it because you just never know when you might need any of those things. Some of the toys or blankets he gave to my kids, but he mostly held on to stuff. He had a lot of stuff!

I am not aware of any Native American ancestry in our family but I haven't researched, so I'm not sure where his interest in them came from. But he was just that kind of man. He cared. He would learn just to learn. Unfortunately, I do not have that same kind of enthusiasm about learning and do it when it's a necessity but rarely just for fun. I don't know anything about Native Americans, not much anyway, so I'm not sure if there is any truth to the dream I had last week or not. What I do know is that it was another reminder from my dad that he will always be with me.

We were shopping and went into a small shop, much like one you'd find at an airport. Not too big but full of various things. This one had mostly sports paraphernalia, and also some custom art pieces. One collection of art was made by a Native American tribe and for me, my dad selected a wooden oval plaque. The front featured a buffalo and the owner of the store told us, to the tribe that made it, the buffalo means peace. Again, I don't know if that is truth or not, but I'd like to believe it is until someone tells me otherwise. I'd like to interpret this visit from my father as him telling me not only is he at peace, but that he also wants me to find peace. 

I've been working for almost the past year to really get in control of my happiness and my life. I've been working with a mentor and a therapist, and have been taking more time to do the things I enjoy. But it's been a struggle. We're in really uncertain times as a world right now, and when you mesh a pandemic, clinical depression and grief all together, it's chaos. Many days I want to quit doing the work because I'm usually tired, most of it is hard and none of it is fun. But knowing my dad is with me every step of the way and he wants me to be at peace, I have to persevere.

I experienced a lot with and learned even more from my dad while he was here with us. But it's these reminders of his continued presence with me after his passing that are becoming more unforgettable than the tangible, real experiences.They're each powerful in their own way and although they're all unique, there is an element of him in each one. 

Offal Writing

I think it's normal as writers, or as any artist, to become our own worst critic and not believe our product is worth much or anything at all. I write because I love it. I don't write to attract a mass of readers or fans. I don't write to please, advise or educate anyone. I write simply because I enjoy it.

When someone compliments the piece, whether it's a blog, short story or whatever, of course it feels nice. When someone says the story I told or message I tried to communicate was well received, relatable or resonated with them, that feels great too. 

But often times, I look at the things I write and wonder why anyone would read it. In the time I spend writing, I work to craft each sentence so it has the correct grammar and spelling. I do my best to sequence the story so it flows and makes sense. I know I have the ability to write well. But that isn't where the criticism of myself falls. It's all about the message. What do I have to say? Why is my message or story any more important than anyone else's? Is it even important and worth sharing at all?

It's not uncommon for people to feel like impostors - not a real writer - or whatever you are striving to be. I don't discount myself as a writer because I believe I am a writer. I don't feel that I'm an author. I don't think you need to publish to be an author, and technically an author can be a person who writes anything from an essay to poetry to novels. Or it can simply be one who creates anything. So in the technical sense, yes, I'm an author. I've created blogs. I've written poetry. I've completed the first draft of a novella. 

Even if I do those things, and am considered an author, who says what I'm writing is quality? My writing skills aren't in a distinguished category. I don't use a lot of big words or uncommon words. I use simple words that are easy to understand. I'm not writing anything especially sophisticated or profound. I write because I just love to write.

Literary works, paintings, portraits, music, and any other type of art you can think of, are subjective. One piece won't be for everyone, but every piece will be for someone. So maybe to the masses my work is offal. Maybe it's meaningless. I might not ever write a book that hits the best seller list and I might never be able to blog for a living. But to the one who reads this and can relate because you also believe the piece of yourself you're sharing with the world is crap, it doesn't matter. Writing is my passion and if just one person can take away something valuable from it, if one message I share can encourage someone and make them feel less alone, then it's worth doing. 

Do what makes you happy. Do what makes you smile. Let yourself shine!