I started therapy about six years ago. My niece had passed away at the age of 35 and I had no idea how to process that information. Also, I was absolutely certain at that same time my husband was cheating on me. I was 37 and had only been married a few years although we had dated for quite a long time before getting married.
After my niece died, my husband very kindly let me know I was a black cloud, sucking the life out of the room. As someone who has always internalized blame, this was easy enough for me to tuck in. However, I still was so distraught over losing my niece I felt it was best I reach out to a therapist and try to learn to deal with my grief.
If you're observant - and I bet you are - there were a lot of other reasons my ass should have been in therapy. The grief, however, was my catalyst.
I got a recommendation of therapists' offices and began to look them up. The most annoying thing about searching for a therapist is they all have these perfect smiling headshots. Why on earth should I find that appealing as someone who is depressed and losing my shit? I guess possibly it's to encourage you that life can be shiny and happy - but mostly I just wanted to punch them all in the face.
I of course selected the prettiest, blondest, most put together looking therapist I could find and scheduled my appointment. The rest, as they say, is history. A history of healing and learning and growing. A present of healing and learning and growing. A future full of healing and learning and growing - and, maybe even some of that shiny happy shit. Who knew?
These entries are some of my experiences. Some of the experiences of others. Some of my thoughts. Some thoughts of others. Obviously, none of this is treatment for you. Even still, this is part of therapy for me. Come along for the ride. Read the insanity. Share your stories. Let's all find our shiny, happy headshots.
