My therapist and I sat in silence. The silences don’t normally last long, I always find something to fill it with; an observation about a film I’d just saw, a complaint about the tone of voice a coworker used, something or other got under my skin, whatever.
This silence lasted longer. I couldn’t think of what else to say. I talked about all I had that was on my mind, most of it I was able to solve myself within the same amount of time it took for me to describe the ailment. So I fidgeted in anxious silence, and she leaned forward, “So, shall we talk about our work here?”
I felt the air in my lungs grow still; I knew that one day this was going to happen, but it always felt too soon. The thing about therapy is that it becomes a security blanket. Whenever something awful happened or a panic attack sent me into isolation, I knew that come Wednesday I would be seeing my therapist to dig and work through the problem like a cleaning out a fresh scrape on the knee: it stings and it’s painful, but it’s bandaged up in the end to begin healing.
Now, my wounds have long scabbed over and healed; some of them left scars behind, but they’re nothing that I can’t sooth with some Louis Armstrong and a long hot bath. The nicks and cuts I get here and there I find myself treating with my box of tools I’ve been searching and gathering for in therapy.
The smile in her eyes told me she knew I was ready, but still fear and anxiety clawed up from my chest and into my throat. She tells me clients normally slow down to an appointment once every two weeks before termination. I nod in agreement, though my chest and throat are chocking on anxious smoke. ‘Termination’ makes it sound like I’m being prepared for euthanasia.
I leave her office 20 minutes early in a stupor. I can hear my anxiety smoking nearby and calling out, “She doesn’t want to see you anymore. She’s terminating you!” but her smoke is far out of my air space so it doesn’t effect me.
I recognize this is a good thing. I came into her broken, now I’m healed and taking care of myself once again. But like a security blanket, I don’t want to let her go in case I start to fall.
I’m at the start of a new journey; I have two weeks from now to go out on my own and handle my baggage alone. When the baggage first arrived, I wasn’t given an instructional guide or a map. I was being told to move, but I had no idea where or how to move. So I went to therapy and gradually got a tool box and filled it up. Now, I have a rough idea of where I’m going and how I’m going to get there, and I’ve got the tools with me to fix any problem that comes my way.
For all I know, next week something will happen and I’ll revert back to my weekly sessions. But for now, I’m going to be painfully optimistic and set out to take on my mental/emotional health battles with my toolbox at hand.