I try not to be too hard on myself for that one time I sought out a therapist. I try to remind myself that I was on the brink of a breakdown when I made that call. I try to confront the humiliating feeling that I am not worthy enough to be my mother’s daughter. I try to convince myself to look back at it as a new experience.
But the truth of the matter is that I don’t feel I’ve learned anything new. The survival strategies I rely on that she asked me to enumerate left her with nothing much to add. Even the simple acts of keeping a rubber band at hand, or feeling my cat’s hair.
Throughout my session, my thoughts kept trailing towards the women I’ve met online and the spaces they carved out for themselves to reveal, heal and seal their wounds.
“We’ve got this down,” I thought.
Poetry, artwork, a wonderfully crafted tweet, a highlighted quote, a powerful video, a heartwarming comment, empathy and love sent over the ether.
We’ve got this!
“This” might be a tiny, suffocating cave with crumbling walls with an invading army determined not to allow us to claim any space as our own. But we’ve still got it, and we continue to carve