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.

Assumptions and Judging

A couple days ago I looked up a support group called Narcotics Anon. I heard the meetings are similar to Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous, but geared towards the loved ones of addicts instead of the addicts themselves. I searched for meetings in San Diego and found one that meets Tuesday nights not too far from my apartment.

After I finally made the choice to go, I started shaking. In that moment I felt the weakest I have in weeks. I started crying and breathing shallow and uncomfortable breaths. This strong reaction took me by complete surprise. Shouldn't I feel empowered now that I've made the choice to seek help and support? I didn't. I felt nauseous.

Before I left to get in my car, I grabbed the bear that Blake bought me. I decided I needed to take him with me; I couldn't leave my room and face this meeting unless the bear came too. I felt like I had reverted back to a little girl desperately needing her teddy. I didn't want to completely embarrass myself, so I compromised that I would leave the bear in my purse the whole time and only squeeze his hand from inside if I needed to.

As I walked up to the church, I sent a message to Blake asking him to help me find the strength to get through this. I kissed my twin freckle, checked to make sure the bear was snug and concealed in my purse, put one foot in front of the other, and went inside.

I don't really know what I was expecting to see, but I came upon a table set up with bright colored fliers and two elderly people wearing big name tags. I saw that they were volunteers for a kid's summer sports camp and realized I was in the wrong place. The woman enthusiastically asked me what I needed, but I didn't know what to say. I simply told her I was here for "a meeting" and asked if she knew where it was. Oh... "a meeting." I think she knew what I was referring to.

For the next 10 minutes I was passed off and guided around the church. Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt like after each new person was whispered to about "the meeting" I was looking for, I was immediately looked up and down. My head started to fill with self-doubt. Did they think I was an addict? I wanted to blurt out to each person that the meeting wasn't for me, it was because my boyfriend just died! That would make these judgmental people feel bad! I started to panic from the weight of my insecurity, frustration with how I thought I was being judged, and the let down of realizing the meeting had been cancelled.

I shut off and went into auto-pilot while a lady tried to find the number of someone who could give me more information. As I sat in the chair in her office, I cried unapologetically while inside I allowed my anger to build. SO WHAT if I was actually there because I am an addict? Shouldn't these church people be proud of me? Shouldn't they be praising me for showing up, not making me feel judged for it? I decided that this must be part of the reason why it's so hard for addicts to come to terms with their addiction. Because people treat them like they are lesser because of it. If they can function normally with their drug use and it doesn't seem to have any obvious effects on their lives, why would they want anyone to know? Why would they agree to get help if the help is doled out condescendingly?

This rant in my head was interrupted when the lady apologized and told me there was no number listed. I was about to get up and go when she very sweetly told me how much these meetings helped her when her boyfriend died of an overdose and encouraged me to try to come back next week. I reached in my purse to grab the bear's hand. She went on. It was like she was explaining my exact situation back to me, only with the insight of being years past it, married to someone else, and raising three children.

Am I the judgmental one?

Did I assume just because these people worked at a church that they couldn't possibly be understanding of a person who uses drugs? Did my insecurity of being judged for this actually stem from the fact that I am judgmental of people who use drugs and didn't want to be mistaken for one? Is that why I awkwardly referred to it as "a meeting"?

So I didn't get to go to my first Narcotics Anon meeting last night, but I did have a valuable experience. I believe it's human nature to make assumptions and judge when you don't have all of the facts, and even when you do. We would be lying to ourselves if we boasted that we are free of biases, free of prejudices, free of jumping to hasty conclusions. The point isn't to never make assumptions or judgments, because that is nearly impossible. Instead, I am going to try to keep an open mind, to realize that the assumptions and judgements I've made about a person or thing might not be true. I think this will always be a constant battle against human nature, but one very worth fighting. You never know when someone will surprise you, so you have to make sure to give them the chance to.