rolling toward the bounce back
On December 14, I celebrated my first day at therapy--again. The first four didn't solve everything.
Emily made me feel like I lacked control and had no chance of ever regaining it. Joan--or was it Jean?--created a space that felt more like what I imagine as a reunion between grandchild and grandma. It was warm, but it wasn't therapeutic. Kyle...oh, Kyle: he truly helped a dear friend (friendship level 1249: share a therapist), but his style created negative associations with far too many old coping skills to the point that now I struggle to accept them as parts of daily life [read: my old way of coping with anxiety was sleeping it away...I don't know the last time I slept for longer than three hours at a time].
Shannon was "the (therapeutic) one." We pushed through my walls, revealing all but a few dark corners in my story. We developed skills, mantras, and habits.
In my lowest moments, I sometimes find myself thinking, "At least I'm not the person who crumbled onto Shannon's couch anymore." I also find myself chuckling about what I consider my "worst days" now. In the past, they were the days I skipped work to sleep off the exhaustion of swallowing back a year's worth of tears. The days of walking out of class to sit alone. The days of contacting toxic people from the past for the sole comfort of familiarity, disregarding the inevitable pain I caused all of us.
I wrote all of that last night, not knowing that I would wake up today and experience one of those "worst days." The kind which I thought I'd shaken, but no--today I left work less than three hours in, feeling defeated and disappointing.
On Tuesday, I completed my third session with my fifth therapist. Already, she has cracked codes that I apparently need to improve and broken down six-layers-thick walls. During our second session, she said that if she had to describe me in one word, it would be resilient. I later tweeted, "I can't handle that as her professional opinion of me...like no, Nikki, I'm a mess FOCUS." At our third, she commended my past growth, particularly with Shannon and our work together.
I'm eagerly awaiting the next session to report back that not only did I leave work due to my mental illness but also that I've reverted back to old coping mechanisms that I refuse to share here. I digress for now. In the near future, I hope to progress beyond these challenges.
Emily made me feel like I lacked control and had no chance of ever regaining it. Joan--or was it Jean?--created a space that felt more like what I imagine as a reunion between grandchild and grandma. It was warm, but it wasn't therapeutic. Kyle...oh, Kyle: he truly helped a dear friend (friendship level 1249: share a therapist), but his style created negative associations with far too many old coping skills to the point that now I struggle to accept them as parts of daily life [read: my old way of coping with anxiety was sleeping it away...I don't know the last time I slept for longer than three hours at a time].
Shannon was "the (therapeutic) one." We pushed through my walls, revealing all but a few dark corners in my story. We developed skills, mantras, and habits.
In my lowest moments, I sometimes find myself thinking, "At least I'm not the person who crumbled onto Shannon's couch anymore." I also find myself chuckling about what I consider my "worst days" now. In the past, they were the days I skipped work to sleep off the exhaustion of swallowing back a year's worth of tears. The days of walking out of class to sit alone. The days of contacting toxic people from the past for the sole comfort of familiarity, disregarding the inevitable pain I caused all of us.
---
I wrote all of that last night, not knowing that I would wake up today and experience one of those "worst days." The kind which I thought I'd shaken, but no--today I left work less than three hours in, feeling defeated and disappointing.
On Tuesday, I completed my third session with my fifth therapist. Already, she has cracked codes that I apparently need to improve and broken down six-layers-thick walls. During our second session, she said that if she had to describe me in one word, it would be resilient. I later tweeted, "I can't handle that as her professional opinion of me...like no, Nikki, I'm a mess FOCUS." At our third, she commended my past growth, particularly with Shannon and our work together.
I'm eagerly awaiting the next session to report back that not only did I leave work due to my mental illness but also that I've reverted back to old coping mechanisms that I refuse to share here. I digress for now. In the near future, I hope to progress beyond these challenges.
---
Ten days have passed in this new chapter, and I'm both startled and upset about my progress and failures. The goals on my 2019 tile include the following: improve my Spanish, paint four new pieces, move out of Iowa, travel to DC, apply for my passport, complete 300 workouts, read 12 new books, complete EMDR with Nikki, apply to 3 or more grad schools, receive acceptance into a grad program, and write my second book.
At work, I've started to create plans for improving not only my Spanish vocabulary but also the power of my interactions with our families. My search for a new city has started, as well as my search for the best grad programs. A DC trip plan is in the works, and I've completed five--will be six later tonight--workouts. I've chosen a few books to read once I carve that time into my schedule. Nikki and I plan to use our next session to create my timeline for EMDR.
I am working toward many accomplishments.
Alas, I am doing so in what feels like a constant shadow of failure. This new year has brought bank/debit card fraud, a faulty battery in the car I bought last month, new people leaving my life just as soon as they entered it, a denied request for the money an ex owes me for my nonrefundable holiday trip that they cancelled (because they are still with the woman they lied about breaking up with before I pursued the relationship), the realization that this blog has earned a whopping one cent in its seven-months-and-two-weeks existence, and the notification that my first book submission was declined publication. Only two others know about that last part--until you read it just now.
To say that this year is off to a rough start is a mild understatement. I feel like I need to jump the battery of my existence, but despite knowing how, the cables are faulty and refuse to work. The work I have done in the past and the power of positivity I aim to incorporate in every present moment feels overshadowed by struggle and pain.
Alas, this is life. Joy is not the presence of happiness but rather the absence of despair. How could I ever feel it if I didn't fully feel what I'm dealing with now?
In the meantime, I'll work to grieve the resiliency I have--the strength I sometimes wish I could stop exercising. It won't let me though. After all, it knows that I bounce back every single time. Perhaps that's why I'm rolling down this steep hill. I'll bounce back up at the bottom.
Here's to knowing that my fierce independence will always be there to catch me at the top.
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