People are peculiar. Everyone has a story; every story has a few versions. We pick and choose the versions of our story that we present to each other. We live in this wide world, we size each other up, we pick each other out, we somehow decide who to trust, who to believe, who to love. It’s energy, it’s alive, it’s real. I have begun to pay attention to it, and it interests me greatly how we decide, sometimes in an instant, who to believe and who to cast aside. There are reasons we choose some and not others. Influence. Judgement. Sometimes misjudgement. It’s always, always a risk.
I’ve been dealing with pain lately. It’s really deep emotional pain that is presenting itself in me as physical pain. It’s scary, but something about it is making me braver. It’s truth, it’s growth, it’s uncomfortable. I think people can sense it. Something about it makes me feel powerful. If it didn’t hurt so badly, I’d almost enjoy it. But it is so deeply painful. It’s not loving and kind. It’s ugly and sad.
I talk all the time about my squeezy heart and I almost wonder if I have manifested this physical pain with those words, because it’s exactly the way it feels. A doctor told me last week, “I need you to know, your heart is not causing you all this pain.” And it’s not. But the pain is there, it’s there right now as I type, I can feel it. It’s love, it’s influence, it’s judgement and misjudgement. It’s power.
I had a meeting with a new therapist this week. I cried all the way there. I cried in the parking lot. I cried in the waiting room, right under the big PSYCHIATRY sign, just like in the movies. I cried because of love, I cried because I’m just so tired, I cried because I am just so worried. I cried because of this weird pain I am carrying with me now that I’m not sure quite what to do with. This poor woman invited me into her office and I sat on her couch and I just opened those floodgates. From start to finish. When I finally stopped talking she said, “Well, normally, we recommend group therapy, but we don’t really have a group that specializes in, well, I guess, what to do when absolutely every aspect of your life just…” and she looks at me so intently, “just… shatters.”
And I had to laugh. Because I’m the girl with the shattered life and the squeezy heart. I’m the girl crying under the psychiatry sign. I’m the girl with all those fucking unanswered text messages and the judgements and misjudgements. You can look at my puffy face and hear the 20 minute version of my story and say my life is shattered. But my life is not shattered. I love myself enough to know that I had the power to give myself this pain and I have the power to take it away. I am far from shattered. I have only just begun.