Why I'm Starting Therapy

Whenever the subject of Blake's death is awkwardly broached, nine times out of ten people tell me they were originally afraid to bring it up. One reason is that they see me doing well and don't want to shove me back into a dark place. They think it will remind me of the tragedy when it looks like I am finally pushing past it. Another very significant fear of discussing my grief has nothing to do with me. Although to me this pain is all too familiar, it can be uncomfortable and unnerving for other people to hear about. Instead of being fearful of sending me down a dark path by bringing it up, they themselves don't want to be dragged along. Letting me go into detail about how I feel can be detrimental to them.

As time passes, it feels decreasingly acceptable to avoid work, cancel plans, shut myself in my room, cry uncontrollably, reminisce longingly, or desperately pray for ways to feel connected to Blake. That doesn't mean I don't do all of those things, because I absolutely still do. But rather, as time goes on I have gotten better at keeping them from other people. After four months, I feel that my friends' and family's patience with my all-consuming grief must be diminishing. Instead of testing their limits, I choose to share selectively or not at all.

Although it may seem like I'm letting it all out in conversations with close friends and family, there is not a single person who knows even the half of how I'm feeling. One part of that has to do with protecting myself from judgment and the other has to do with shielding everyone else from how scary my mind can be. Writing has given me a little more freedom from this, but lacks the element of human connection. The process of writing out how I feel is cathartic in itself, but sometimes leaves me lonely, wondering if anyone is reading it or even cares.

This is why I'm starting therapy. I finally found a therapist who specializes in traumatic deaths and am in the process of making an appointment for this week. I am confident that until now I wasn't at a place where this method of coping was best for me, so I am not ashamed that it took this long to take this step. I believe that I needed to struggle, lean on friends, and explore support group settings in order to get to a place where I know what I need and what I don't. In this time I've done the background work of really figuring out what I want to get from therapy. Now, I can go into it with both self-awareness and purpose.

Although I will continue to confide in my friends and family and process through writing, therapy can be the extra piece that ties everything together. Therapy can be an outlet to get all of my feelings out so I'm not walking around carrying their weight, the space to talk about my scariest thoughts that I would never want to burden friends with, and the tool to help me work on myself in a way that I've been unable to do on my own.

With strength from Blake and a whole lot of my own, I'm ready.

"How Are You?"

After “Hi,” most conversations start with “How are you?” When I was taught manners and social etiquette, it was engrained in me that this was the normal follow up when greeting someone. But I’ve noticed that “How are you?” is generally an empty question. It’s brushed off with a simple “Good, you?” “Good” and then the actual conversation begins. In my experience, an answer besides “ok” or “fine” or “good” interrupts this rushed formality and is seen as almost a hindrance to the progression of the interaction. So “How are you?” has become less about wondering how exactly someone is doing and more about being polite.

As anyone going through grief or a trauma knows, “How are you?” switches from a harmless social formality to a daunting inquisition. From the moment the question is posed, a battle starts in my mind. Should I actually tell them how I am? Do they really want to know? No. I know they don’t, I’ve been down this road before. I can’t possibly burden them with the truth anymore. They’ll start to cry, or worse, they’ll know how crazy I am. No, I can’t possibly tell them. So by default I always settle this internal conflict by answering, “I’m ok, you?”

I’m not bringing this up because I wish “How are you?” was really an invitation for me to pour my heart out to anyone who greets me this way. Honestly, it would probably be uncomfortable for both of us and a waste of time. Not everyone wants or needs to know exactly how I am all the time, even if they ask. What I’ve realized, however, is that in a world where asking “How are you?” is nothing more than a formality, it’s important to have a few friends who’s “How are yous” aren’t just the precursor to a conversation, they ARE the conversation.

Although this blog has been a space for me to share things that I wouldn’t necessarily admit out loud, it isn’t a substitute for the support gained through human interaction. The most helpful thing for me has been finding people who won’t be scared by my responses to “How are you?” Friends and family who can be the sounding board for my darkest thoughts and deepest fears and still look at me the same way afterward. People who understand that sometimes how I am is all I need to talk about until I’ve gotten to the very bottom of these feelings and released them completely. These are the people who ask "How are you?" and actually mean it.

As long as I have those few, invaluable people in my life, answering "I'm ok, you?" to everyone else isn't a lie.