It's the times when you've got everything nicely planned out that the plans shift and unravel. You're thinking, "Wait a minute. I pushed through mountains of work and sleepless nights to get here, to this oasis of peace and contentment, and all I'm seeing is fighting children and pee-soaked carpet." Or maybe, just shooting from the hip here, "Hold on, I convinced myself this summer would be soul-restoring and healing. I'd get the house ship-shape in the first week, relax and take leisurely lunches while the kids were at camp the second week, fall into some novels, and achieve psychological enlightenment and sparkling baseboards."
How's my summer going, you ask?
It's been a little bit "breathing gets harder," and a little bit perfect, and a little bit loud, and a little bit quiet.
It's been a lot different than I expected.
I decided to take a different job, a decision that came with some soul-searching and gnashing of teeth. And some uncomfortable conversations for someone who's really not cool with disappointing anyone, ever. (Though I will say, I'm getting better at resigning! All this job-changing is good for something!)
I've spent more time with the kids, which is good and beautiful and physically and emotionally exhausting.
I got a freaky severe headache - I guess I can technically call it a migraine because the doctor told me that's what it was - and had to have a CT scan to rule out subarachnoid hemorrhage. That was scary.
I went on a family vacation as myself, which is different than going on a family vacation as ever-accommodating and people-pleasing Chelsea. I'm still trying to figure it out. Authenticity is hardest when the old band is back together and we're expected to play the same part we've always played. But what if the piccolo never moved me and the cello is cathartic?
I've cleaned the house, for hours and hours, and it's still not clean.
I called the psychiatrist and left a message. They called back and left a message. The ball's been in my court for a couple months now, enough time for things to shift and for me to decide that exercise is something I know will unquestionably improve my emotion regulation and peacefulness without making me puke on myself or get hypomanic. I have yet to regularly exercise, but I've checked off that precontemplation box so I'm getting there.
I decided to quit therapy.
I know.
I do this from time to time, for reasons which are probably abundantly clear to people who know me, but I can't quite grasp them when I'm swimming in it. There are plenty of surface-level reasons: I felt stuck, it made me hate myself to go and spend the hour having a friendly and easy chat only to leave beating myself up for not talking about any of the hard stuff, I felt too needy, I decided surely Neil was tired of me by now, I nearly convinced myself I'd made all the growth I was going to make, the necessary and magical boundaries of the therapeutic relationship pissed me off one too many times (read: Neil is not my father), I decided it was impossible to love myself so we should stop beating that dead horse... so on and so forth.
It was painful. It's not that I wanted therapy to end, but there I was ending it. For my own good? Maybe that was what I needed - that was the growth? Everything was painful and confusing, and I was isolated because I was pretty sure all my people would say, "Chelsea. You're an idiot. Don't quit therapy," so I didn't tell them. (Hi, everyone reading this and finding out. Don't worry. It's okay.) It's so difficult to explain, and to really understand, unless you've been in therapy for years and have felt the shifts and tangles in that enigmatic relationship. I'm not sure I can really describe how it felt or what I was thinking, but with some wise counsel and some quiet reflection, I changed my mind.
That's something we don't often celebrate, the changing of minds. We like a person to choose something and stick with it! Persevere! Never quit! Someone who changes her mind is waffling and unreliable and wishy-washy. Well, one thing I'm grateful for is my inner drive to protest whatever shitty messages I can frame as societal or cultural. You tell me there's a protest and I'm on the bus, carrying my signs, screaming 'til my voice is gone. So when society tells me I shouldn't change my mind, I say society can go hug a cactus. You don't own me! I can go back to therapy!
But, maybe I'd like a break?
On the seventh day, we rest.
Seven weeks without therapy. A therapy Sabbatical.
As soon as that was decided, everything shifted. The sadness and fear and anger about the decision to stop therapy dissolved. There was space, and hope, and peace.
Which brings us to now, entering week two of The Sabbatical. Week one was about going back to basics: trying to be gentle with myself, practicing Awareness of Breathing meditation every day, meditating on some compassionate ideas and mantras (courtesy of Pema Chodron). Journaling, sleeping, trying to listen to myself. I say "back to basics," but none of these things come naturally for me. And that's okay. I just keep trying.
Week two's theme has become self-compassion. Talk about things that don't come naturally to me... more on that next time.
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