Musings on my priceless toilet paper friends, family and therapist…learning I cannot shake them off…and why I am grateful I have not been able to:
Before I began this metamorphosis, before I knew what the coming months would bring, I was searching for something, an elusive something that lay just beyond the grasp of my understanding of what “it” was. I “needed” this something so much the search consumed me. I tried to find it in all the wrong places: work, school, the garden, food, alcohol and sleep. Then just as God has done before He led me to the Disciples of Christ Christian church. I had been to this church before, crept in, stood in hallway or sat in the very back and listened to the service, even sang with the choir a long long time ago. Thanks to Google I found their Web page, so I could see times for service and most importantly when the choir practices (more on this later). While clicking away on the links I found an outreach ministry page with details about a therapist. It was there that I found what I had been searching for. No there wasn’t singing angels and a holy glow or anything, in fact it was more of a “guess I will try one more therapist before I give up” moment. I was sure she wasn’t going to be able to, or even want to help me. I knew she would be like the others, get frustrated by me, move to another time zone, tell me I was too much to deal with…but I needed to be able to tell Mr. P (a long time mentor), Dr. D (another long time mentor and dear friend) and my precious daughter that I had tried one last time. So I sent her an email. No I didn’t call I was scared she would answer, actually talking to someone would have made me panic. She called me. I rambled through a broken recounting of my history, and finished it with “if I come see you there cannot be any sad eyes, no tears. I do not want sad eyes or tears. I cannot handle them.” Without much hesitation she told me she wouldn’t promise that to me, that she was human, and sad eyes and tears were part of being human. But she said she would like to meet me, to talk face – to – face. We scheduled a time, but I did not really believe I would go. I couldn’t believe I was thinking about going down the therapist road again. That road had just that week left me battered, bruised, heartbroken and hopeless when I had the third therapist in three years abandon me.
Time came for the appointment, I was scared and anxious. Because I knew if she and I did not connect, in the bottom of my purse was my means to an end. At home there were letters written to everyone, explaining I had finally realized this world would be better off without me in it. There were letters to my daughter, years and 100s of sacred moments I would not be there physically for, but wanted her to have what wisdom I could give her for those times.
Something forced me out of my car, into her office, through the door and onto her couch…more than forced I was led by, no, held by Grace.
We went through the usual first session stuff, but at the moment when I was about to call an end to this because she was treading to close to the real me, she did something that shocked me, rooted me into the couch. She asked if she could come sit on the couch with me. At first my mind raced with “danger danger Will Robinson,” at the same time I was intrigued. A human therapist? One that would cross the great divide between her chair and the couch? What was wrong with this woman! First she tells me she may cry and now she is stepping over the Freudian chasm to sit next to me? That move was akin to the first move in a chess game with Bobby Fisher, she drew near. At a time when I was as prickly as a cactus heated by summer sun, she drew near.
The nurse, the mother and the child in me was comforted. Instead of being scared and anxious my spirit calmed. Maybe she could help…she asked me at the end of that seasion if I would take a chance and walk out onto this limb with her, if she promised to hold my hand. I took it, I chose to leave all my logic for the moment and trust her. So it began. I left her stunned I think. Bewildered by this woman, I tried to talk myself out of it, but I couldn’t. So I threw out my means, my plan and my intent, and instead that Sunday I went to the church. I sat in the back, thought I was hiding, but the people of the church would not let me hide that day. They reached out and greeted me, invited me and wanted to know me. A part of me desperately wanted to know them as well, but as it does my anxiety had me run out the door to the safety of my home, of my routine. Little did I know they had already made a mark on my spirit, I could not shake them off. One of them, K, reached out to me on Facebook. I very cryptically told her I wanted to be in the choir, but was too scared to go on my own accord. In her always cheerful way, she told me the choir would love to have me, that she would be there Wednesday to help me walk through the door. I was relieved, I knew I would need her to push me through the door, but didn’t tell her that. I had another session with my therapist before choir practice that week (just going to have to be generic here and call her “T”…sorry I know…no creativeness…). She was impressed, even proud of me for going to church, and planning to go to choir. Well that fed my people-pleasing, approval seeking, soul, and it gave me the courage to at least drive to the church for choir practice. My daughter (who did not ask, rather she told me, she was going to be in the choir too), and I stood in the hallway while I waited for K to arrive. She wanted to just walk right into the practice room like she owned the place, I wanted to hide in the hallway until I saw a familiar face. I was torn between wanting to model confidence for my daughter and the war inside my head that told me I was not good enough to be there. Hiding didn’t work. Another member of the choir came across us in the hallway and took my arm and led us in. I have no idea how one place has managed to attract the most incredibly nice people, but that church has. I was scared, but soon was able to lose myself in the music brought to life by our amazing pianist. Heaven was there, or God was there in that room that night. I left there feeling like I had found a secret, a scared place where I could find that something I had been searching for. That night M left me a note on my pillow that read “mommy, that was the most incredible thing we have ever done together, I cannot believe it.” I do not cry, not yet anyway, but that note made my heart pound. I said a silent prayer of thanks to the choir, to K, T and God that I had been there for that moment.
The people of that church have become our friends, some of them are my family. They are my “toilet paper” family because I tried to shake them off last week, but like the trailing toilet paper stuck to your shoe…no matter how hard I shook, or stepped on them they hung on. I was so convinced that I was bothering them, that I was not worth their time, that I would disappoint them that I could not understand why they would not leave me be…I even sent them all emails saying leave me alone…and instead of an okay I got…
“You are not bothering us, we love you. We signed up for this. When we stay in touch with you, we don’t worry. Just think of us as that piece of toilet paper hanging onto your shoe. You can’t shake us off!”
That is how my toilet paper friends, family and therapist came to be named such…I couldn’t shake them, and am learning that I will not be able to…but that is okay…in fact I count it as a blessing.
When you struggle with anxiety, OCD depression and never learned how to have emotions, having a toilet paper family and therapist can be overwhelming and scary. I have found myself these last few weeks sometimes worrying that they care too much, that I could wear them out, be too much. But every time that thought creeps in so does the image of toilet paper stuck to my shoe, and I smile and move on to the next moment.
Reach out and find your toilet paper friends and family…they are the first step to understanding you are worthy.
Metamorphosis through Grace 