Charles Made me Cry

Today I went to my fourth therapy session. I have felt like we have been off-topic for the most part, trying to discern what it is that might be bothering me, or fueling the anxiety that I've been feeling. The first three sessions felt empty for me. I was trying to be honest; trying to express my feelings and concerns; trying to come up with reasons for the discomfort that I feel.

But nothing felt quite on target.

We talked about this-and-that, we went here-and-there discussing my life and feelings, and even tried delving into my subconscious to clean out old and painful memories. That was interesting -- going into my subconscious mind -- I felt like I was being trained as a Jedi, learning how to control my mind like Luke Skywalker.

In all seriousness, it really does feel like my therapist is Yoda, trying to help me work through the dark side of my mind, and training me in the ways of the Force. That is how I think about him anyway, he is not trying to make me un-crazy, because I am not crazy. (Well, maybe a little crazy.)

I feel like he is helping me become more powerful than I have ever been, as I explore the vulnerability of my mind, and as we, together, turn my vulnerability into strength. It is hard work, it is not easy. It is painful, and challenging, but so are all things worth while. And, absolutely, the health of my mind is worth my time and energy.

Worth it I am. Mental games I must play.

This therapy thing is not very straightforward. It will take time to sort through all the caverns in my brain. (Or at least the painful ones.) As my therapist reminded me, he does not have a label, or a file box he puts me in, with a treatment based on that label. No, I am too complex for that. Even after three visits, nothing was feeling right to me, nothing was being made clear to him either, it did not feel like we were on the right path... it felt like we were wandering in the dark.

Until today.

I felt very vulnerable today. I am tired, exhausted from Daniel's Eagle Scout project over the weekend (I will write way more in detail about that). I went in bracing myself for what might flood forth, because I felt so weak in every way. I knew that today would be different, before I even got there. I could feel it bubbling inside of me. I was boiling with anxiety, like a pot of emotional stew, fully cooked, ready to be served with a side of corn bread. Mmmmm... corn bread sounds yummy. 

I did not want to go back inside of my subconscious mind for this visit. That involved being in my head without speaking, and that drove me nuts; because I am always in my head trying to work things out. (Going into my subconscious is basically being in a meditation mode (like yoga) where the therapist asks me questions that I can only answer in my head, and not out loud. It is a very difficult process, at least for me.) Today I knew I needed to talk it out verbally. I think that is what I will always need, because that is what I do not have. I need someone to talk to about the nitty-gritty stuff, to work through whatever the things are that weigh me down, and keep me feeling anxious.

It is so hard for me to keep stuff inside. If something good or bad happens, I have to take it to my head, discuss it with myself, and try and be at peace. I live a life without much resolution in conversation. I really, really, miss having meaningful conversations. I miss those conversations that have depth and breadth, and a feeling of progression and learning. It is hard to have those kind of conversations with myself. I end up feeling like Gollum. I think Gollum could have used a therapist.

Today, as I sat on the leather couch, with the sound of a pen scribbling on a yellow notepad -- still going in circles about life and things, trying to find a direction -- somehow in the conversation, the topic of Charles came up. The pen stopped scribbling. I just began describing Charles out loud. I talked about what he had accomplished with his life, who he was, and what he meant to me. As I said his name, the flood gates opened, and out poured a portion of the pent-up fire fueling my anxiety.

I miss Charles.

Desperately. 

This causes me anxiety.

You may think, well, of course that would be the problem. I am widow, so duh? But for me, I was surprised by the amount of grief it caused me to just take a moment to think deeply about Charles. I find I simply do not think of him much, whether on purpose, or not, I do not know. I do not avoid talking about him, but I have just sort of pushed him into one of the deep caverns of my head and heart, perhaps to avoid the real pain it causes me to have him on the forefront of my mind at all times.

I try not to think or talk of him too much, likely to protect my heart from pain; but I think the pain of not talking or thinking about him might just be worse. I believe I have an issue with holding in my feelings as a protective method. And not just to protect myself, but to protect others as well. Who wants to be around a blubbering puffy-eyed basket-case? The girl in the mirror says, "Not me!"

I cried for the rest of the session as I spoke of Charles. I cried all the way home thinking about him. (That was fun on the freeway!) My head has hurt all night because of the tears and the pain.

Three years I have been without him. Three years I have carried the burden of grief and sorrow, while trying not to break under the pressure. Three years I have slept alone, with only myself and the angels in Heaven to console me. Three years I have been a single mother trying to keep the van Ormer ship afloat. Three years I have been a widow. (FYI, the origin of the word widow means "be empty.") Three years I have clung to courage, trying not to let go, even while being so very tired and weary from the journey of widowhood.

Three years I have missed him so terribly I can hardly stand it, so now I find myself sitting on that leather couch in the therapist office, trying to work through the weight of the world I've been carrying on my shoulders.

Just a portion of the flood gates were opened today. I know that more emotion and deep cavernous feelings will seep out in future visits. Next week, I am supposed to bring pictures of Charles, because my therapist wants to hear all about him, and who he was.

I think I better go and get a Costco-sized package of tissue.