It Was Time to Begin Therapy
I had held out long enough. Been stubborn stoic long enough.
It was time to admit that I needed professional help.
Do I have to?
::balls up fists and stomps foot::
I should be strong enough to handle my life, dammit! I'm not the only person in the world with problems. I'm not the only one carrying a heavy load.
I deal. I cope. I cry and laugh. I find the good and positive amidst the crap.
I get a little bit stronger with each passing crisis.
Or do I?
Maybe I get stronger with each crisis, but they have broken me a little too. Like one step forward, two steps back each time.....
I had diagnosed myself with PTSD and anxiety. I don't know anyone who would have disagreed with those presumptions. I have had flashbacks to the nights my husband's heart has stopped, and my breathing catches and tears sting my eyes. What is minor to someone else is difficult for me because my emotions were constantly raw and at the surface.
I thought time would heal. It does some, but not entirely. The nerves and fear are still always there.
I'm strong yet sensitive. Courageous yet afraid. Positive yet cynical. I am a walking contradiction.
The contradictions are hard to reconcile.
It was time for me to accept some help figuring all this out. As much as my friends and family love me, and blogging is free therapy, neither holds the understanding I long for.
I'm not sure why I found this so hard to do. I had pushed and pushed the idea of therapy away for such a long time. I do know I worried it would only serve to muddy the waters more.
It was my children, although they don't know it, who inspired me to give in. If and when we lose their dad, I will need all the help I can get to be everything they need me to be.
The next day.
Not like Scarlett O'Hara's "I'll think about that tomorrow", although I admit I had done plenty of that.
No. I began seeing a therapist first thing that next day.