I started therapy for the first time. Well, rather, for the first time really giving it a wholehearted, thoughtful effort. I've been in therapy in the past, but those instances didn't involve much effort on my part at all; I mostly sat still, stubbornly quiet, punishing myself for an emotional and mental weakness my father relished in pointing out.
I couldn't have benefited from therapy back then even if I wanted to. I wasn't open to it. I didn't understand it. I didn't understand myself. The therapist I'd been assigned back then also seemed woefully unsuited to my brand of repression, sensitivity, and the bizzare juxtaposition of my desire to save my parents' marriage and my desire to exact eye-for-eye justice upon my father, starting with the stairwell and closing with the two-by-four.
The therapist I'm seeing currently seems suited for it all, and I'm working on opening up my heart to the process. It's terribly frightening. I am a raw pile of emotional mush existing amidst the highs and lows of sorrowful memories and present joys. And I am trying to be okay with that. Be in it, purposefully and thoughtfully, without shame.
Breathing. One. Two. Three.