A word. A feeling.
I wish I knew how to process things differently. I am learning how. I am learning SO many new skills in therapy for my moods and big feelings. I am learning to be so much easier in myself. While journaling is wonderful, I can’t make myself keep up with a paper one. Maybe it’s the instant gratification of typing. The neatness. My neurodivergent brain loves it.
So, here we are.
In trauma therapy, we’ve finally dug into the meat of it all. The oozing, pus-filled wound I have several bandages on. The one I ignore.
We spent half my session on grounding exercises:
I pictured a container to put big feelings in (a pickle jar with a blue label.)
Breathing. (Pushing air out instead of in because sometimes that’s hard. Then inhaling and holding.)
My happy place. (The inland beach at a park when it was filled. The place where I could float freely.)
My therapist asked for details of that place. The way it smelled and sounded. How it felt. They would help me get back there as we dove in.
I was really afraid.
It was like this little gremlin pounding on the wall I keep up around my brain when I don’t want to remember. I kept picking it back up and tossing it into the jar, knowing that it was going to have its moment in the sun in due time.
“Of all these phrases,” they said, “which is the most true for you?”
I didn’t want to hide. Not from that nagging feeling in my brain that I bury under bravado and fake charisma.
“When was the first time you felt that that was true? That you’re, ‘Worthless’?”
I tell them I temper being happy before it happened. Could imagine instances from my childhood where I played with friends and went to church. All a blur of color. I tell them that it was the first time it happened.
As part of the therapy, I have to say it aloud. Use plain words.
I have stop signals. Holding my hand up or saying, “let’s take a second.” I feel in control for the most part. I have to be. I thrive on it.
And then the worst part happened. One that I’m still recovering from as I wrote this, curled in my favorite chair.
“I want you to repeat that phrase in your head, ‘I am worthless’ while imagining yourself back there.”
I didn’t know I flinched until I heard them make a pained sound. There weren’t any words. Just their voice describing my happy place that doesn’t exist anymore. (Which is hilarious in the grand scheme of things. I still ache for it.)
I’m a mess.
They tell me, now we can get to the bottom of it. Like draining a festering wound. I believe them.
Part of me feels lighter. That admittance, that I feel worthless, made what I actually believe to be true come to mind:
I am wonderful. I am worthwhile.
I am excited for next week. Until then, I’ll hold myself a little tighter.
