I really like to tell stories. Whether it’s writing an essay, sharing a story about something funny my kids say, or retelling my friends about an awesome awkward encounter with a random celebrity, I like connecting with people that way.
Comedy is my favorite type of spoken word. I like to think that my one talent in life is the ability to turn a humdrum story about shoe shopping into a raunctious tale of Cinderella-style hunt for a the perfect peep toe among a mountain of porn star shoes and orthopedic inserts.
But man, I am the awfullest talker in therapy. Literally every week feels like another test in which I inevitably fail. Each week I walk in and it’s as if my brain melts and not a single coherent thought is able to form. There are things that I would love to talk about but my mouth can’t seem to form the stupid right words.
I am honestly the very worst version of myself in therapy. I can’t seem to get out of my own damn way, either. I have this really annoying tendency of keeping people at arms length. Losing the ability to control my image and ripping off the facade of a pretty much put together and somewhat charming individual is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I would prefer to have a viral video of myself dancing the Nae Nae naked on youtube than have to do that.
I’m pretty sure this topic itself deserves it’s own therapy session. Talking is hard sometimes. There are definitely things I know I need to address but maybe I’m not quite ready yet. I balance that thought on the tip of my tongue every week.
Failing at therapy is depressing, especially for someone who just likes to be liked. However, putting on the pretend smile that most people see kind of defeats the purpose. So I don’t. I have weird thoughts, like how annoying I probably am, how whiney and uptight I’m probably coming across, and really how much easier it would be to just pretend that everything is a-okay.
But the grief is tough. It’s overwhelming and all encompassing. I tried to run away from it, ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there, but it keeps advancing and creeping back into my life in the smallest yet painfullest ways. I keep saying it’s time to just get through it. So I keep coming each week, pulling out the darkness a little tiny bit at a time, exposing it to light and stealing back some of its power. Each week I walk away a little lighter, each day a little stronger.
I wanted to write this essay because I know that others have felt like they are failing at therapy. I want you to know you aren’t alone. You are not broken. You are worthy of healing. It’s important to not give up, even if some days it’s all you can do to just show up.
Grief is so hard. But so necessary to get through.