Tuesday, October 7, 2014

* In which this is what counseling looks like

 
photo credit


She told me she saw me as brave. After a month of listening to pieces of my story, of themes repeating and changes in process, of barbed language about myself - all those shoulds and oughts and I feel so bads and not enoughs - of the exhaustion, the grief, the loneliness, the wrestling. I see courage written all across your story, she said. It's beautiful.

And at this point, the tears shimmered like waves about to crest in my eyes.

I don't feel brave, I said. And then the waves broke.

* * * * *

It just so happens I feel the most intensity of emotion right as we're wrapping things up, or when I step out into the street and begin my trek home. Back when I had a car, I knew I had a safe place to break after sessions like these. Now, I have the streets, the bus, the moments where I tuck away into music in the midst of a crowd. 


The bathroom stall.

I hole up in the dark metal stall, because I don't know what else to do. The tears are streaming as I leave her office. So here I sit and let them roll and crest and break, for ten minutes, until they slow to a trickle. 

And here I let myself feel not alone.

I see my reflection in the pane of glass on the train. A girl - I know she's a woman, but somehow she'll always be a girl to me, I think - stares back with bloodshot eyes. Sad eyes. I am not all of me sad, this I know. But tonight, my eyes say that I am. So I don't fight it. I don't worry about the people on their ways home, what they think of this girl with the bloodshot eyes, because I know they have their own griefs hidden in their eyes, too. I know this is not who I am, the full story, but there is no need to hide it tonight. We, all of us, can just be human tonight.

* * * * *

I wasn't prepared, exactly, for how much space my faith would take up in the counseling office. I thought I went primarily for other reasons. And I did. But this issue of faith - of evolving faith, questioning faith, discarding elements of what I had once considered faith - is here, front and center, equal parts liberating and terrifying. And it is a blessed relief, once a week, to have a place, a person, I can let it all hang out with as I sort through pieces. And it is also exhausting. For I live with this every waking moment.

I can no longer take so many mainstream Christian beliefs at face value. This big, wide, complex world is literally breaking open in me and much of it, I keep to myself. Because, tell me, where can I go in the church to question these things without being told what I should think or believe or how I should live, who I should listen to and who is not safe? 

Some of it creeps out into my writing, this is true. I write in process. And as I've shared before, I don't write with the outward goal of being inspirational, of overtly sharing the gospel or prescribing a way for others to live and believe. I write the messy, unfinished pieces and I trust that this is not the end of the story. But these are pieces that fill out the story, that make it a beautiful story, and though there is darkness here and though I don't always point to the light and say, "Here it is, in case you're wondering" there are shards of it filtering through. Redemption's crumbs and evidence of a bigger story unfolding before and during and long after mine has been told. And because of that, there is hope.

There is a real fear, an uneasiness, I think, among writers who identify as Christians, that sharing too much of the hard stuff will be read as self-pity. As wallowing. Over-identifying with brokenness. Self-indulgent. Not pointing enough to hope and truth and light. 

What are we so afraid of - our humanness? No, I am not writing for pity, self or otherwise.

I'm learning not to listen to this fear, at least in my writing, though it just seeps in other places.

For most of the hours of the day, you will find a battle waging in my head. Me, with my club, taking swing after swing at the tired girl in the mirror. Telling her she doesn't love well. That she needs to move on, to figure things out, to fill up so she has more to give. Because, damnit, people need her and she is failing them.

As if it were that simple. As if this is what will help her "get her stuff together," a well that won't run dry.

And my counselor today, sitting across from me with brows knit compassionately, asked if I could start by loving myself well, the way I want to love others.  The rest, she said, will follow.

My tears came then, answering her question for me.


Linking with Unforced Rhythms


*I borrowed this from a beautiful writer, Sarah Bessey, who begins many of her blog titles with "In which..." Because some days, I find there is no better way to say it. So, cheers to Sarah.


17 comments:

  1. You are, to me, an anne Lamott writer. Honest. Truthful. Teaching. Sharing. You give so much through your writing. Thank you Amber.

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    1. Wow, Katey. That's a high compliment - I am so moved by the way Anne writes. Your words and presence here are a gift to me today. Thank you.

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  2. Holding that sad girl close in my thoughts today ... And thinking how even though there are myriad ways we can all learn to love ourselves better, the fact that you did not allow the silence of the train to fill with self-condemnation or any other manner of ugliness - projected from your fellow passengers, or otherwise - says that ALREADY you are growing in grace toward yourself. You see that the sadness is but one part of you. And you respect all the parts. THIS IS BIG, my friend.

    Also, what you have written here? Is lovely. Just like you are. Please know that I am here for you - in case you should ever need reminded.

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    1. Seeing the different parts of ourselves and respecting them all... this has become a huge part of my journey to wholeness. Thank you for seeing and affirming this - for seeing the parts themselves as holy.

      And this reminder you're here? It's not necessary, no. But it is sweetness to my heart anyhow. Thank you so much, dear friend.

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  3. Thank you for this, Amber. I keep thinking about that little girl Jesus raised from the dead - she is restored to fullness of life - I think that's the promise we hold onto through the tears. You are on a good and true journey, friend.

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    1. "... a good and true journey." These words speak so much to me. Thank you, Kelly. And I think you're right, about the promise we hold onto through the tears. Beautiful hope.

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  4. I hear your heart Amber. I love that your counselor told you that you were brave. I think its about believing the truth about us. and sometimes Sometimes knowing the truth about us is not just believing what is good, but also NOT believing the lies. That may or may not have much to do with where you are now, but I have had to believe the truth about who i am both ways. Sometimes others have to believe for me until I can believe for myself. I have been hoping you'd show up in my inbox soon. And here you are.

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    1. Isn't that the truth, Carol? That "sometimes knowing the truth about us is not just believing what is good, but also NOT believing the lies." It is much harder to believe the lies than it is the good. I'm trying learn both ways. Thank you for being here. Really. It is a comfort.

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  5. oh and I was going to add - I so get it when you get the emotion at the end of a session. Often that is when something finally clicks for me. If I can, I try to schedule the hour after a session for myself. I have found once the hour starts, there is nothing quieter than a reception area at a therapists office! (might have to resort to the bathroom for a few minutes!)

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    1. This is SO smart. I can't change gears that quickly, so having some time alone after is pretty necessary.

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  6. Amber, I wish I could sit with you, friend. I am graced by your courage and your honesty, your refusal to put on a false happy face -- your commitment to telling the truth, working out what it means to be you -- simply you and complicated pieces you -- in the arms of a loving God. And too, I have felt that Christian writer pressure you describe here. Thank you for putting words to it.
    I am holding you close to my heart today, friend. I love you so much.

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    1. Ashley, you know how I wish for that, too. Often. Each time I have been with you has been a grace, and I'm grateful this is mutual :-) Thank you, always, for letting me know how my words and story sit with you. I love you, dear heart.

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  7. Your words are so well stated from your heart to others. Thanks for sharing! You are an inspiration to so many with your honesty regarding things so many are afraid to voice and the deep love you have for others/God. Love you, sweet Amber!

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    1. Auntie, your words are a gift. Thank you for reading, for encouraging, for loving. I love you, too.

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  8. So beautiful. Love your chosen words and how well you string them together to form a picture of your stitched-together, beating heart. From one messy Christian to another, you've got more than a few of us on your side - we've felt what you're feeling, and we get it. It's okay not to do it as it's always been done, and it's okay to ask all the questions.

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