Typically, when I come out of a counseling session, I am entirely content leaving everything behind me on the proverbial couch. But back in November I had the bright idea that I would start to journal after my sessions. It’s not going so great. Counseling itself is going fine, but the whole post-therapy reflecting – not good. Every so often though, a session just demands it.
I knew going in that this week’s was going to be one of those sessions. The kind in which I start crying at deep and prying questions like: How was your day? or Did you have a good weekend?
The type where I feel completely transparent, completely exposed, hoping when I leave that no one asks: Katy, are you okay? Because basically the answer to that is always no. If I don’t look okay, I probably don’t feel okay. And if I don’t feel okay, I probably don’t want to talk to you about it. I want to put the wall back up and put you decisively on the other side of it.
In fact, as I start getting closer to all those raw emotions, I’m discovering how little I want to talk to anybody. Supposedly that’s why I started to blog and pound out some of those feelings in my writing.
So here goes.
I am sad and frustrated and I feel really alone a lot of the time. Like, maybe even the majority of the time. But I work really hard at not feeling that way and harder still at making sure no one else sees when I’m feeling that way.
I’ve made sure the wall between us has fun, bright graffiti on it, covered in equal amounts poetry and punch lines. It’s a very presentable wall and I’ve spent somewhere north of 20 years building it. I am a master wall architect.
For the most part, my frustration boils down to a common problem; I want something that I simply don’t have. When I have a bad day, I want to go home and talk to someone about it. When I have a good day, I want to go home and talk to someone about it. I want someone else to empty the litter box or tell me they like my sweater or see me when my hair is really messed up in the morning and laugh with me. I want someone who matches me; someone who fits. (And I really do want someone else to empty the litter box.)
Unfortunately, these days that means I don’t want to hear about the little fights my friends are having with their husbands or their wives. I don’t want to know when their kids say silly things or dress up like a cowboy. It doesn’t make me giggly to hear about the “incident” with your lipstick or your husband’s briefcase. Actually, it makes me sad and sometimes, if I’m honest, a little bit mad. Not at you really, or your husband or your kids, just at life or myself or maybe my therapist for making me think about it in the first place.
All the little hurts, the single-moment memories that I’ve stored up like old wine bottles, have not aged well. And when I spend a 50-minute hour taking down those bottles for a taste, I can’t help but leave a little tipsy, not sure which way is up.
I do want to know about your kids and your partner and your silly stories. But you might need a little extra patience these days. That distant look isn’t because your kids aren’t cute, it’s because hearing about them makes me just the tiniest bit sad.
If therapy is teaching me anything, it’s teaching me that I’m not quite as wise and not quite as ready for the future as I thought I was. And that any significant change between me and the world outside my wall is going to take a little more transparency and a lot more time. Transparency with those who love me and can handle the bursts of crazy that come out, and a lot of time being honest with myself about where I am, what I want and why I’m not there yet.
Do you carry an unrealized dream around with you? How do you deal with those feelings?
I knew going in that this week’s was going to be one of those sessions. The kind in which I start crying at deep and prying questions like: How was your day? or Did you have a good weekend?
The type where I feel completely transparent, completely exposed, hoping when I leave that no one asks: Katy, are you okay? Because basically the answer to that is always no. If I don’t look okay, I probably don’t feel okay. And if I don’t feel okay, I probably don’t want to talk to you about it. I want to put the wall back up and put you decisively on the other side of it.
In fact, as I start getting closer to all those raw emotions, I’m discovering how little I want to talk to anybody. Supposedly that’s why I started to blog and pound out some of those feelings in my writing.
So here goes.
I am sad and frustrated and I feel really alone a lot of the time. Like, maybe even the majority of the time. But I work really hard at not feeling that way and harder still at making sure no one else sees when I’m feeling that way.
I’ve made sure the wall between us has fun, bright graffiti on it, covered in equal amounts poetry and punch lines. It’s a very presentable wall and I’ve spent somewhere north of 20 years building it. I am a master wall architect.
For the most part, my frustration boils down to a common problem; I want something that I simply don’t have. When I have a bad day, I want to go home and talk to someone about it. When I have a good day, I want to go home and talk to someone about it. I want someone else to empty the litter box or tell me they like my sweater or see me when my hair is really messed up in the morning and laugh with me. I want someone who matches me; someone who fits. (And I really do want someone else to empty the litter box.)
Unfortunately, these days that means I don’t want to hear about the little fights my friends are having with their husbands or their wives. I don’t want to know when their kids say silly things or dress up like a cowboy. It doesn’t make me giggly to hear about the “incident” with your lipstick or your husband’s briefcase. Actually, it makes me sad and sometimes, if I’m honest, a little bit mad. Not at you really, or your husband or your kids, just at life or myself or maybe my therapist for making me think about it in the first place.
All the little hurts, the single-moment memories that I’ve stored up like old wine bottles, have not aged well. And when I spend a 50-minute hour taking down those bottles for a taste, I can’t help but leave a little tipsy, not sure which way is up.
I do want to know about your kids and your partner and your silly stories. But you might need a little extra patience these days. That distant look isn’t because your kids aren’t cute, it’s because hearing about them makes me just the tiniest bit sad.
If therapy is teaching me anything, it’s teaching me that I’m not quite as wise and not quite as ready for the future as I thought I was. And that any significant change between me and the world outside my wall is going to take a little more transparency and a lot more time. Transparency with those who love me and can handle the bursts of crazy that come out, and a lot of time being honest with myself about where I am, what I want and why I’m not there yet.
Do you carry an unrealized dream around with you? How do you deal with those feelings?
