Sometimes the blows in life come at you fast – faster than speeding bullets, subways and St. Bernards. They chase you down, run you over and what do we do? We get back up.
I’ve come to realize that I have survived all the things that could bring a woman low: abusive relationships, death of loved ones, poverty, depression, suicidal thoughts, health challenges, divorce, self-image issues, and obesity. Well, I’m still working on that one. It’s something about that middle age marker. My spare tire decided that it really wants to be committed to me until death parts us. We’re working through it.
I’ve realized that life has really done a number on me, but each time it ran me over, I quickly got right back up and convinced myself that I was okay, saying “Un unh. I’m strong. This will not defeat me.” While that may be true, I let my grief pile up like loads of unfolded laundry, and I let my wounds spill over into my spirit and taint my view of the world and people. I put up walls, and you know what they say about walls, right? Walls keep people out, but they also trap you inside.
So there I was, in 2019, trapped. I sat up against the walls I had built, and I battled chronic depression.
Those who follow me on social media probably noticed that my motivational videos practically became obsolete and my words of encouragement became nothing but vapor.
I knew something was wrong when I cried going to bed, I cried waking up, I cried driving my kids to school, I cried walking into work, and I cried coming home. I was surrounded my people who loved me, and yet, I felt so alone. Helpless & hopeless. Happiness no longer visited me daily, and when I asked was it ever going to come back around, and the answer was a resounding “maybe.”
So, I got help. Not from well-meaning friends. Not from family members with their own skewed views. Not from a quick Google search, and not from the Bible alone.
I sat on the cliche couch that all therapist have, and I gave voice to things that I had silenced. It was the most freeing thing I have ever done, and for the first time, I was able to tell someone, “This happened to me, and I am not okay.”
With each session, weight came off, and with each session, ghosts spoke and then said their goodbyes. I walked out of each session lighter.
Listen. Therapy is the most freeing thing I’ve done. Had I not been brave enough to go get help when I saw that I clearly needed it, who knows if you’d be reading this blog today. But here I am being strong enough to admit, I’m weak, and ironically, that’s the definition of strength.
I’ve watched so many sisters, like me, bear so many crosses and take so many shots from life, all while yelling, “I’m good! I’m fine.”
So, I’ll leave you with this…..
I don’t know what story is behind your, “I’m fine,” but I pray that even if you aren’t, that you will be.
I wish you all love, peace, prosperity, and, of course, a good therapist who will let you voice all the things you’ve silenced.
4 replies on “The Dirty Word: Therapy”
Everybody needs to read this!!!
❤️❤️❤️ Thank you for reading! ❤️
This is awesome and so true. I finally decided to see a therapist when Covid-19 hit, everything shut down, including me, and the anxiety was way pass unmanageable. Thank you for sharing.
Yes! We have to normalize getting professional help. I know that this year has taken many people low. It’s been a lot. The uncertainty. The lack of normalcy. There’s such beautiful strength in getting help. Thank you for sharing, and letting me know I’m not alone. ❤️