The Second Therapy Session

Today was my second day of therapy.

It has been two weeks since my first appointment, and I am almost finished with the book my therapist asked me to read. We decided to meet again next week because there was a lot that wasn't said today.

We also decided that we are going to do some mapping for EMDR therapy. The plan is to work on some of the things happening in my life right now and then slowly work our way backward.

I think that might be exactly what I need.

When I walked into therapy today, I was full of rage and frustration.

I had a terrible week.

For most people, the things I was dealing with would probably just be frustrating. Annoying. Things you deal with and move on from.

But for me, they felt much bigger.

They felt like life or death.

I have been processing so many emotions lately and trying to figure out where they come from. What is triggering them? Why do certain things affect me so deeply?

And honestly, right now, all I can really identify is depression, loss, and despair.

I walked into therapy carrying a whole list of things.

So we decided to put them in the trash.

Not literally, obviously.

But in my mind, I pictured this giant trash can.

And one by one, I started putting everything in it.

My daughter.

The frustration of feeling like she doesn't respect me when I ask her to move her trailer to the storage unit or take responsibility for the dog she insisted on getting, even after I told her, “Do not bring that dog home.”

Of course, I fell in love with the dog.

That doesn't mean I can afford to take care of another animal.

Then there is Anthony.

When I start showing even the smallest signs of depression, he checks out. I think because it is something he can't fix, and if he can't fix it, he doesn't know what to do with it.

So he just ignores it.

Then there is work.

The people who create drama and problems that don't need to exist.

The constant frustrations.

My photography business.

Not having enough time.

Feeling like I am never doing enough.

Never feeling good enough.

All of it went into that trash can.

I pictured myself putting all of those problems—and honestly, even the people attached to them—in there.

I shut the lid.

And then I locked it.

For just a little while, I didn't have to deal with any of it.

But as I was getting ready to walk away from that locked-up trash can, something happened that I wasn't expecting.

I remembered Anthony.

Not the Anthony who checks out when I am depressed.

The Anthony who was there for me last year when I was going through my breast cancer scare.

He wasn't perfect in the beginning. At first, he didn't want to worry about it. I think he was trying to convince himself that everything was going to be okay.

But when it became time to actually worry, he was there.

He went to every appointment.

He tried to make me laugh.

He reassured me.

He held my hand through something that scared the hell out of me.

The biopsy came back negative, thankfully.

But I was told I needed to have my tubes removed.

I still haven't done it.

And that realization hit me hard.

Because once again, I am last.

Even though I told myself this year was going to be different.

I said this was going to be the year I put myself first.

But I had two surgeries I was supposed to have this summer.

And I didn't.

There wasn't time.

Anthony's arm needed surgery. His surgery was for pain.

Mine was for comfort.

And somehow, his pain always seems more important than mine.

I don't say that to blame him.

I say it because I am finally starting to recognize a pattern.

I am always willing to put myself last.

I can always find a reason why someone else needs me more.

Someone else needs the appointment.

Someone else needs the surgery.

Someone else needs the help.

Someone else needs the money.

Someone else needs my time.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped realizing that I need things too.

I think that is one of the hardest things I am beginning to understand.

Putting myself first doesn't mean I love my family less.

Taking care of myself doesn't mean I am selfish.

Saying no doesn't mean I am a bad mom.

Having needs doesn't mean someone else's needs aren't important.

Maybe I am allowed to matter too.

So I went back to that trash can in my mind.

All of those frustrations were still locked inside.

They weren't gone.

They weren't solved.

But for that moment, I didn't have to carry them.

And as I sat there doing my deep breathing and thinking about my peaceful place, something changed.

I felt the weight leave my body.

Not all of it.

But some of it.

I still felt sad.

I still had things I needed to work through.

But I wasn't carrying that same heavy feeling I walked in with.

And honestly, that felt like a victory.

Maybe therapy isn't going to magically fix everything.

Maybe EMDR isn't going to erase the past.

Maybe healing isn't about getting rid of every painful emotion.

Maybe it's learning how to put things down.

Learning what belongs to today and what belongs to yesterday.

Learning what is mine to carry and what isn't.

And maybe, just maybe, learning that I don't always have to come last.

I don't know what next week will bring.

But for the first time in a while, I am actually looking forward to finding out.