“You need to work on not being so sarcastic, ” she suggested as she peered over her reader glasses.
“What…? That’s like asking me not to breathe…It’s the one thing I’m good at…I..I…I can’t just stop, ” I exclaimed!
She continued her gaze and said, “I said work on it, not totally give it up.”
She…is my therapist, my counselor, and over the course of time and years, my friend. This woman has seen me at my worst, she has guided me through some tough terrain, and she has given me my life back. Because of her I am stronger, more self-confident, and not afraid to be me.
I have said for years that my counselor is my best friend because “she knows too much.” She knows things about me that I don’t want to admit. She has seen the dark caves of my soul. She has been my audience as I pour out my heart, and acted out my trials and tribulations. She has seen the cracks in my character, and the holes in my armor. She has seen the walls I’ve built and she has witnessed me tear others down. She has cheered on my triumphs and celebrated my victories. Yes, this woman knows me better than anyone. She probably knows me better than I know myself.
Actually, I never saw myself as the type to sit on a therapist couch ( and yes I lounge on the couch just like in the movies. The chair seems so intimidating…like I’m in the principal’s office). Isn’t a counselor for people with issues? I have yet to shave my head, there hasn’t been a Lifetime movie made of my life, and I haven’t flown over the cuckoo’s nest…yet. It’s not like I have any excess baggage…or do I? Okay, so maybe I do have a few issues. And the baggage…well, that’s a whole different blog.
I can honestly say that my issues were not the result of childhood trauma, abuse, or neglect. I didn’t have a Mommie Dearest type of life. Quite, the contrary. My troubles seemed to start once I left the nest. The baggage came later…the result of my own choices, lack of a backbone…(mine was more like a limp noodle) and looking through glasses clouded with denial and excuses.
Yes my friends, I’m thankful for my therapist’s couch. Without it, I am almost certain I would have turned into a recluse like millionaire Howard Hughes and wearing empty tissue boxes on my feet for shoes (Yes, I read he actually did that), or shaving my head like pop star Britney Spears and running over the paparazzi as they wait outside my door (to take my picture of course). It’s the little things…