Look Out Your Door

I happened to have a good week, even though I got some not so great news.  Reality checks are a nice treat when you walk the line of emotions and agreeing with the logic your brain is spewing at you.  I got a visit from some pretty cool people and I accepted a gift without the guilt or shame, we shall have a working furnace again.  Some people are just good. IMG_20171209_174435

I want to defend a supportive measure I had during the past year, I’m not sure why.  Insecurity, shame, fear of judgment that I somehow failed at the art of successful parenting.  Whatever it is, I’ve not yet had enough therapy to not have to explain 😉  I am working on that.  Shit takes time, it’s a work in progress. 

During my daughters discharge from her partial day, where she was at for 8wks for depression and PTSD post disclosing of sexual assault and the perfect timing of Oct, her therapist asked if we would be open to “family based therapy”.

I said yes, I was in the throes of my own PTSD issues from my husbands shit storm – the more distance I get the more of sad and broken person he seems to be.  Did we need it, no…I could have pushed through it with the tag along kids and we would have been some fucked up semblance of ok…eventually.

I was struggling, for the first time life threw shit at me that unbearably heavy and very lonely – my husband hurt me but he also broke my heart and my ability to feel safe, loved and trust myself or anyone else.

I said yes to this family based thing.  A therapy team, they come to your house, you get 40 hours a month.  What the fuck ever.  I’d play the game.

When I talk about our time with family based, I get this feeling that people will assume it was because I was a shitty parent and this was some social services mandate I had to have to keep my kids.  Some entity *made* us have this service.  Yes, I know that’s an over generalization and yes I know that is a theory created in my head.

For the record, it was a choice I made because being just ok after a ton of stuff was thrown at myself and my family, wasn’t my end game.  It was swallowing of my pride and knowing that it wasn’t about me, it was about my kids getting the chance to be more than just ‘ok’.

I’d play the game, for them.  Ha, so I thought in Jan as these two ‘therapists’ sat at my kitchen table and would become woven into every aspect of our life.  I’d play the game, yes, yes I would.

The slightly arrogant, tall, bearded man who had this bizarre need to look trendy with perfectly done hair and his partner, a meekish chick with a nose ring and her day planer.  Really.  Thank fuck I had insurance paying for this.

I’d “feel better after the 8 months”.  Fuck off. I sure as hell don’t need these people.

Before I knew it, Aug was creeping up, those 8 months had passed and with that came our discharge date and yes, I did feel better.

Family based is absolutely nothing like therapy one would think of.  It’s a world of its own where these people become facets of your everyday, they become part of a new life you’re striving for while caring and firmly holding you accountable for an end game that is real and tangible – one they believe you capable of achieving even when you don’t.

I let them push me for my children and instead, they pushed me for me.  I guess that’s the beauty of it, because it came full circle. I am a better person and a better mother for them.

It was a hard venture to dive into such an exposed and vulnerable place.  These people were real, as real as it gets.  And they are in your ass pretty much every single day, with 3 sessions weekly ripping apart your darkest of places, and almost daily texts.  There are a great many stories of those 8 months, some would horrify people with how far off the ideal of what traditional therapy should look like.  Some I hold close because they are my reminders of how and why I want to never go back to those dark places.

I look at my kids and see that who we are as a family is profoundly different than a year ago, and profoundly different than just ‘ok’.

There were tears in Aug during discharge, I can say that I grew to love these two people and I do miss seeing them but when Aug rolled around, I had grown as far as they could take me in a therapeutic relationship.  I was able to connect with my children in ways I never knew how – they kicked ass, they really did.

This past Monday I got a text to look out my door and lo and behold, there are Steve and Sarah…it’s been 3 months since I’ve seen them.  I was stupid giddy over it.

I miss them, I miss Mondays the most.

Full circle.  After 3 months it was nice to have them here and tell them, we really are ‘ok’ and not in the stoic surface ‘ok’, but an authentic, emotionally, ‘ok’.  Even the official ‘client’, Claud, who made them work and gave them a run for their money.

Good lord she is her mother’s daughter.







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