Yesterday was one long storm. I woke up aware that I had to do history taking. I braced myself all day for the history taking. I lived, breathed and ate history taking. I dressed and got ready – skipping eye makeup because I figured I’d just cry it off.  I arrived on time at 2:45 p.m., and almost immediately, started crying.

We haven’t even touched on the ancient history yet. We’ve only covered some of the collateral damage related to childbearing and rearing, and my relationship (or rather, lack thereof) with my parental units. Still, certain words and phrases triggered the living shit out of me and I found myself unable to talk or breathe without the therapists determined assistance in keeping me present.

“You’re very hard on yourself.”

Feith nods emphatically through the tears.

“You don’t deserve that.”

Blubber, sob, blow snot bubbles, hold breath, fight to stay present.

“Are you feeling like I might be judging you?”

Affirmative, dear lady. Affirma-fucking-tive.

“All I’m feeling is empathy. I’m a mother, too.”

Blubber, sob, blow snot bubbles, hold breath, fight to stay present.

“We should maybe talk a little about your mother.”

Oh, hell no, said my body. I could feel my throat close over as though there were an iron gate in there somewhere between my mouth and my lungs. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t breathe without some twisted sounding howl issuing forth. Not today, thank you.

“I’m fine with sound. You’re not going to freak me out.”

Maybe not, but I’m freaking myself out.

And we ended the session.

***

Afterward, I felt like I’d been beaten. I was dazed and wrung out and completely exhausted.  Beloved came to get me and drive me home so I didn’t have to face riding home in a cab.  He grabbed pizza for the boys, and made sure I had the time and space to recover.

It took hours to ground. Hours. But when I finally did, these are the insights I gained by letting myself go deeply into what just happened in therapy:

I’m really very, very hard on myself. And I don’t deserve that.

The only human response to what I’ve been through is empathy and compassion. Anything else is inhumane.

I have become very adept at creating crisis around me so I don’t have to deal with the ongoing storm within me.

I’m tired of being a walking storm.

I seem fine from the outside in, and that has served me very well, but it’s safe now to be not-so-fine.

Crying feels unsafe. Talking feels unsafe. Looking someone in the eye when I’m telling my story is fucking *terrifying*.

Just because I feel unsafe doesn’t mean I am unsafe.

A pot, watched with kindness and empathy, is likely to boil over all over the place.

I am ready for this. I can do this.

I started a new paper journal last night. It’s a scrapbook and I intend to use it however I please. I wanted a way to express what’s going on inside without the need for writing (which is all wrapped up with the need to be perfectly eloquent and skillful). I bought some magazines, treated myself to new glue and coloured pencils…

It felt good to give myself that kind of sacred space.

Last night I made a cover for it and did some collage for my first entry. I know where I want to get to, but I don’t know how. That was the jist of it. The end result of my first session. I want to get THERE from HERE. What are the steps I need to take? First steps – go to therapy, be gentle with self, let self cry.

I can get there from here, but not alone, and why should ‘alone’ even be in the equation?

The fact that the lid came flying off my simmering pot so easily with a virtual stranger tells me I’m ready for this. I’m scared shitless, and I’m all kinds of raw and hurting, but I’m ready…

Next session in two weeks.

Deep Peace,

Feithline