May 21st, 2015
My, my, in which it has been a while.
My lack of putting any pressure of pen to paper, or pressing the daunting Post button for that matter, I am not afraid to say, is completely due to fear. Often I lie in bed feeling guilty for not committing more time to this labour of love. I hate making excuses, but I finally had time to rest, and every moment I could, I did. As dedicated as Type-A’s are to Spring cleaning, I was eager for my April rejuvenating.
Along with plenty of sleep, I recently returned to Therapy. We talked, caught up, and to our rejoice, we both noticed a marvelous change in my thinking. My old way of thinking may not particularly be the way one thinks and struggles with, but for me it was like a constant frog stuck in my throat, which prevented my confidence.
I sat in his comfortable leather chestnut chair, the typical theraputic type.
No time had passed before he asked me how I was doing, you know, the ice-breaking reply everyone has a social-standard answer armed when inquired.
But, it was strange.
This time, it was like a blanket of humidity changed the crippling dryness in my mind, allowing me to accept myself. This time, it felt like I saw the moment a sailor’s desperate eyes captured his wife’s dahlia lips, knowing how to love myself.
It was like, potentially my own futile mental war, was finally over.
I am sure he felt the change too, his voice became eager and stern,
“Chantal, do you feel that you are important?”
I, intimidated, knew it was an open-ended question to inform him if the old warped tales were still spiraling in my mind. I did not hesitate, I mean, I guess I did, but this time, it was not like searching for an old photo of a friend in a junk-filled treasure box. Accepting myself was right where it was meant to be all along, in my gut, and rolling, rolling right off the tip of my tongue.
“I do. I do. I know I am.”