I walked into my first therapy session today. For myself.
I’ve been to therapy one other time as an adult – three sessions and an adjustment to my hormones and I was off the ledge of clinical depression and have carried on fine since then, 7 years. Or so I’ve kept telling myself.
Self care. What the hell is that? It’s not something I’ve seen done well, and when I have, it’s by people in a different life stage than me, but when I have seen it there is one distinction – choice. And there are so few people who have made that choice, at least in my circles.
Walking into that office today – a psychiatric outpatient clinic sign on the building – was hard. I know I am supported. I know I am loved. I’m not trying to blame things on anyone (if some things/people get labeled, that’s fine, but I don’t need to revisit and fix anything). The past can not be changed, but how I interact with the now and the future is in my control – is my personal choice.
Accommodating. This is apparently who I am. I don’t know why (yet) and I’ve asked a handful of my closest people and they agree that this description fits me. Honestly, it pisses me off. What a terrible word.
Compassionate, empathetic, nurturing…those are fine, but accommodating – yeah, that throws me off. It’s negative to me. And it makes me mad that my closest ones agree! That means that they KNOW I accommodate them! Come on. Feeling as discombobulated as I have the last few months the last thing I want is to hear that people know I’ll do what they want me to. Awesome.
Self care was touched on today in the session. Accommodating wasn’t. Should be interesting.
This Matchbox Twenty chorus keeps coming to mind:
I’m not crazy I’m just a little unwell
I know right know you can’t tell
But stay a while and maybe then you’ll see
A different side of me