I hadn’t realized how far gone I was until I sat in that room for hours, with someone I had paid to listen. I’m not against therapy, but it made me think when I got back; I looked around (my life) and realized that I didn’t have anyone I trusted enough to pour my heart to; I had to pay for that. And the whits that would fall on the few I was unsure of, would always end disappointingly, and I would with a heavy heart, shake my head and agree that such things, nowadays, have to be paid for.
It honestly felt more depressing. Again, I couldn’t oppose therapy; it’s beautiful. Only, I didn’t need someone to study and understand my mind; understand me. I needed to do that by myself. Self-discovery, or so, they call it. I did a little trick, where I’d be my own ‘therapist,’ and handle myself in all the ways I wish had when I paid someone to sit through my hours’ rants.
I didn’t need someone to guide it, my mind; guide me. Not after sessions of a combination of in-absolute sincerity and masked anxieties. They would get lost and put me on a wrong train, or worse, they would be swept off their feet, by the feelings I had stacked in all my dark spaces, with the tag: PROFESSIONAL, dangling over where they had sat, listening, and earning from my feelings.
I needed to find me. Understand me, through me. Discipline me. And learn, among many things, to LISTEN TO ME! I realized that I needed to do plenty ME, so I did. And we connected. Yes, a shard me and the MEs that made me whole; completed me and made me who I am. I recollected them. And reconnected them; reconnected with me.
And it was heavenly; when my progress meant the world to me. When every day showed me who I was, what I could be, and where the choices of yesterday had put me. It was what they termed ‘slow progress.’ Others couldn’t even see it—nothing, but ashes in their eyes. But how the world’s opinion mattered less! They couldn’t see it the way I did. Nobody did. So, I did ME!