Therapy Session #1

So my first therapy session was just horrible. Wonderful and horrible. The grief center that I go to for counseling is completely free to anyone suffering from grief who wants to use the service. I got the name and phone number of the place from Allen's former therapist (she refused to see me although I really wish she would have).

I had decided that if I was going I was going to be totally honest and tell her everything that had gone on from as far back as I could think would matter. And I did. I gave her more information in that 50 minute hour than I thought was possible to get out in that length of time.

 And I cried.

Big heaving sobs.

And she listened. She didn't try to tell me anything I did was wrong. She didn't judge any of the intimate details I gave her about our marriage. She just listened. She asked me how I felt I was doing. She told me I was to tell her anything I wanted to tell her and that she promised I wouldn't shock her. And I didn't.

I went home, rested a bit and then went back to work.

I was drained and exhausted.

I felt so overwhelmed by the experience that I called in to work the next day. But it was ok. I had started therapy. I had taken the first step. This wasn't just for me, it was for everyone who had worried about me. Everyone I had promised I would do it.

And I felt that even though I was all wrung out that day... that it was going to do some good after all.

I wasn't crazy, and I was going to be ok... and someone qualified to make that judgement and tell me was assuring me of that.

She was telling me what I already knew.

I was going to be OK.