Things We Carry Home

07 – 210626

Collecting shells is fun until it isn’t. By the third day in a row, it becomes old. Have you ever stayed in the Maldives for more than a week? It gets boring quickly.

I want to share my experience with therapy, which, fortunately, wasn’t boring because my therapist was crazy.

Therapy seems to be a modern interpretation of the old Christian confessional booth. The authority figure listens and then advises you to get along with others.

I attended ten sessions in person. I didn’t lie down on a sofa like in the movies. Even if I didn’t have trust issues, I wouldn’t lie down in a stranger’s office out of ordinary, rational caution.

The therapist I ended up with was the kind who yells. Sometimes at me directly, but mostly at an imaginary child beside her. We both knew it was directed at me.

Yelling at me doesn’t work. I’ll simply conclude that you’re unstable and dismiss you altogether.

But I like memorable numbers: ten sessions, three attempts, six months, three years. This tendency has prolonged my suffering on many occasions, for no better reason than wanting to tell myself a good story.

Now I stop the stories and do what’s good for me. I course-correct as I go and no longer adhere to plans when they become detrimental.

The takeaway from therapy was supposedly that I needed to be more flexible, which happened to be the exact same advice she gave my friend, the one who recommended her to me.

Ironically, flexibility was precisely what the therapist herself seemed to need most.

Of course, any significant change in a woman’s life must first manifest in her hair.

I attempted to go with the flow, with nature, with the seasons, in a visible and tangible way. I watched videos promoting lighter hair in summer and darker hair in winter.

Matching oneself to the weather is probably a poor anchor, but the idea felt adventurous.

After all, I was now supposedly attuned to myself, my body, other people, and nature itself.

So I lightened my black hair, much to my family’s dismay. I suspected they thought I was having a midlife crisis, and I didn’t bother correcting them.

Afterward, I realized this advice is largely aimed at the vast population of brunettes.

On the spectrum of hair, black-haired people occupy one end, blondes the other, and brunettes enjoy the expansive middle ground.

Most black-haired people and blondes cannot afford the luxury of flexibility.

For us, it is all or nothing.

We inhabit the realm of intensity.

And perhaps we are loved for it.

A striking presence is rarely achieved through meekness.

What I am trying to say is that flexibility is not necessarily for everyone.

What does being flexible even mean?

Really?

What I understood from therapy was that if someone bothers me, I should either cooperate fully or cut them off entirely.

Either self-abandonment or abandoning the other.

How boring.

We might as well die and go to heaven.

What happened to long-term resentments and the delicious grudges we savor for years?

What happened to grievances used as currency to negotiate our way through life?

How skilled are you at being courteous to your enemy?

Tell me.

Therapists, in general, are not necessarily there to help you personally.

They operate within many of the same systems that brought us into therapy in the first place.

She wanted me to conform, to become manageable.

Which is not always in my best interest.

My advice is this: don’t be too flexible.

Don’t be too accommodating.

Improve your communication skills.

Include poetry in your everyday expressions.

Refine your persuasion tactics, though the best ones have survived for centuries.

Sharpen your wit.

Refine your standards.

Being endlessly flexible will not get you very far.

You’ll become an elastic band that has lost its grip.

Being too accommodating often leads to being used.

So stop collecting seashells, grievances, excuses, and stories.

And stop with the gratitude lists too.

Most importantly, stop telling everyone how good you have it or how terrible you have it.

If you’ve told the same story to someone more than three times, apologize.

And if someone has tolerated the same story from you for more than three years, perhaps leave them.

They are either a fool or they need help themselves.

If you are in crisis, and we have all experienced crisis, seek help.

A journal can take you surprisingly far.

The rest, a good horse can cover.

And if that isn’t enough, there is nothing quite like a good friend.

The ultimate savior, of course, is a sister.

I’m sure there are wonderful therapists out there.

In the same way that I am sure there are many soulmates out there for me.

But wherever you go, save yourself.

The goal is not necessarily to feel good, nor even to make sense of your stories.

It is to restore your sense of dignity.

Dignity is built upon honesty, privacy, and beauty.

Sharing too much, even with a therapist, may mean relinquishing some of your privacy.

Take a walk by the sea.

Collect some seashells.

Fill your eyes with the vastness of the ocean.

Sigh into the openness of the sky.

We are all here for you.

Just walk in dignity.

We are all here for you.

We are on your side.