Conversations with Lady

We'll call my counselor "Lady", okay?

I went to see Lady following my bout of suicidal thinking.  I am usually moderately composed when speaking with her.  Tears are expected in this room- which get this, for irony, is the same exact room that Cory, Jake, and I went into each and every time for her counseling sessions.  Same chairs.  Same bucket of toys Jake used to build with while we talked.  Total mindfuck.

Lady likes me, I think.  Most of the time I feel like we should be having coffee somewhere talking about life instead of getting bi-weekly advice on how to function in my Cory-less world.  She is used to my occasional dropping of the f-bomb, my need to tell detailed linear anecdotes, and my over the top hand gestures when talking.

It was a little sad and uncomfortable then when I left her company after my last appointment, feeling, as my mother would say, mad as a wet hen.  She had suggested to me to try setting aside some time in the evening- say 15 minutes- as my "Cory time" when I could fully concentrate on my grief, and the rest of the time try to stay in the moment.

I fully admit that I am irrationally angry at least forty percent of my waking hours.  I know this about myself, and I accept it.  By the time I'd hit the parking lot of Summit Pointe, I was fuming.  Put my girl on a shelf?  Take her down for fifteen minutes in the evening?  Had she lost her ever loving mind?

This completely offensive idea of "compartmentalizing" was supposed to give me room for other things in my life.  I could only think to myself, what other things?  Frankly, the idea of setting Cory to the side made me scared and angry.  What is the goal there?  I also felt horribly guilty about even trying it.  To me, it seemed so much like letting her die all over again.

I knew before I even asked her what my friend, Angie, would say.  Something close to, "Your Lady is 100% right to suggest compartmentalizing.  Eventually, Nicole, everyone has to do it in some form or another to move forward.  You have to decide if you like where you are, or if you want to feel something else."

Fricking scary how good I am at reading that woman's mind, because when I asked her if that was what she thought, she could only cover her face and laugh helplessly.

As I am wired to do, I went home and analyzed this whole thing to death.  I, at least, had enough presence of mind, to recognize my paranoia as it hit.  I began thinking I would stop going to counseling altogether.  Fit Cory into a tiny slice of my day?  She is my heart.  Without her front and center, I will just disappear.

Leaving her behind is not even an option, and what good was going to counseling if that's all they were going to suggest once they had your trust?  They.  See the paranoia?  See the agenda, there?  Because the goal of talk therapy isn't to improve the client's life, but to destroy them (insert sarcasm here).  C'mon, Nick, that's not even logical.  Could this possibly mean something else?

Okay.  First, I researched it.  What is the goal of this incredibly hurtful suggestion?  "To give you some sense of control of your emotions in a situation that is out of your control."  And, "to allow you to honor your feelings of loss without allowing it to define every moment of your existence."  Hmmm.

Then, I had to ask myself some pointed questions.  Do I even want to feel better?  Maybe not.  But I don't want to feel this way, either.  I am trapped.

I had to ask myself what I really expect from a therapist?  Sometimes I think I've grown throughout this entire experience, and other times I might as well be at Walmart, kicking and screaming in front of the candy display at the checkout.  You want me to be honest?  I open myself to those well-trained professionals with one secret agenda hidden underneath the foliage of all that sharing and problem solving:  Produce my daughter.

Like one of these times, Lady is just going to hold up her hand, and say, "Okay, okay, Nicole.  You've suffered enough..."  She'll just scoot back her office chair a bit, and let Cory climb out from under her desk where she's been secreted all along.  Cory will give me that look she used to when she was little and knew she'd been naughty, and then apologize for playing such a nasty trick on me.

That's what I want.  God help these poor therapists.

So when I went back to see her the other day, I spoke up.  I told her I'd been angry and uncomfortable with her last suggestion.  I explained my reasoning, and listened as Lady redeemed herself a bit by acknowledging how hard it is to come in and say you think a professional's suggestion is a load of crap.  "That's how you deepen a relationship."  she tells me.  I've gotten so much better at speaking my mind since Cory died.  After you lose what meant everything to you, caring what other people think just doesn't happen as often.  Being understood becomes the most important thing in the world.

Lady assured me giving myself some breaks from overwhelming emotions was not supposed to make me feel worse, and if it was, I certainly did not have to do it.  Ahh, control had been regained.  

She added that mindfulness is more about emerging yourself in the moment, so that disturbing memories have less room to barge in on you while you're doing all that healthy thinking.  I may still secretly find this to be a load of crap, but I was polite enough not to say so.  Nod and smile, Nick, just nod and smile.

As a compromise, I agreed, instead, to make some "encouragement" cards.  Lady told me to visualize what was happening to me as two halves of myself walking together:  one wants to drag her feet and would honestly rather sit down in pre-July 2012 and live there.  This half is tired, dirty, bedraggled, beaten, and bereft of hope.  (Maybe I added that part in myself).  The other half is strong and confident in her ability to keep walking, carrying Cory in her heart.  These two are rubbing up against each other right now, she says.

I broke in, "Uh no.  One of them has pushed the other to the ground and is stoning her."

"Yes.  Yes."  she says.  "But if these halves could work together?  What if they could join hands and help each other along.  Could your strong side say some nice things to the tired side?"

I just looked at her.  Huh?

"Could your strong side acknowledge all that you've accomplished?  How far down the path you've come?  You are working.  You run a household.  You're raising a child.  You're an artist.  You create.  You write.  You paint.  You share.  You haven't resorted to drugs and alcohol to cope.  You're not in jail.  You're not in the hospital.  You're alive, despite all your wishes not to be."

I puffed out my chest just a little.  I couldn't help it.


Okay, Lady, we'll keep seeing each other.  I don't like to give up on people.