Confessions of a mental health practitioner.

I guess it was just one of those days. I hadn’t had enough self care activities in the few weeks prior, I had a backlog of less than sufficient sleep, I felt a bit cranky and even walking the (objectively very cute) dogs was pissing me off. So I did what I know works for me. I ran a big bath, dug out my oils and fragrances, and dished out a good dollop. I lit the scented candle, turned off the lights and put on instrumental yoga music. I shut off from the world and tuned into myself, my body, my mind. I spent time with myself. I restored. I slowed down and just was. I didn’t ‘do’. And of course the reflections came, followed soon after by creativity. And of course with some emotions and tears. And I let it.

I felt. I let myself feel. I felt for all the beautiful people I support. I am honoured to have wonderful, everyday people (survivors in their own right) walk through my door, sit down and share with me. Me. Little old me. Who am I? Not in the existential sense, although that happens from time to time too. But as in, who am I to help them? ‘Them’ who are brave, tough, hurt, broken, strong, numb, ecstatic, lost, trying, found. I am broken too. I am small. I am so incredibly insignificant. What could I possibly have to offer these remarkable humans? And after some more crying, I knew what it was. Correction, I felt what it was: I cannot fix what has happened to them or in their lives, any more than I can fix what’s happened in mine. I cannot pick up the world and shake it by it’s shoulders and say “stop it! Stop being so naughty!” like I want to. I cannot tell them I have all the answers because I don’t. All I can do, is be. Be with them. Be myself. I can offer hope, love and a vision that things can be different. I can be side by side, in those moments where we expose raw nerves, and it hurts. But we’re there together.

‘Learning to tolerate pain and discomfort’ is not just an annoying therapeutic phrase. I have come to realise it’s for survival. It’s so that we can live. Not just live, but really live. Live to our fullest human extent. Live in the human experience - in all of it. And it sucks. And it’s beautiful. It’s joy and heartache. It’s injustice and advocacy. It’s victories and losses. It’s staying and working hard, and it’s walking away and starting again. It’s the unexpected, and yet very expected. Good one, life.

In so many ways I am no different to my clients. I feel pain. I’ve been hurt. I make mistakes. I’ve hurt others. I strive to learn, grow and be better. Sometimes I feel like giving up. I want to make the most out of my life but sometimes get scared and stuck. I’ve also done many things I would never do again, and many things I wish I could do all over again. I’ve focussed on the wrong things, I didn’t understand things and thought I did. I have been adamant and stubborn, only to feel like a fool. I have missed out. I have overlooked. I have wondered ‘why’ more times than I could possibly ever count. I have wanted to inflict pain because I’ve been in pain. I’ve wanted to crawl up into a ball and never come out. I’ve ignored my senses and instincts when I wish I’d had the skillset and strength to listen and act. I’ve learnt to forgive and ask for forgiveness. And it’s all very hard. But somehow I’m still doing it.

And I mourned. I grieved for the losses we have had. And for the strength that we still have. I cried for the pride I felt in myself for my own story, and for the story of those around me. The collective strength. When we share, we get stronger. When we let people in, we get stronger. When we break down and cry and feel, we get stronger. It is indescribably insufficient to say “I understand.” I don’t. And yet I completely do. I feel you. I share your pain, your joy. We are one and the same in a human-being-existing-kind-of-way.

I looked at my body. I said “I love you, me”. “It’s always been us, and it always will be us. Thank you for getting me this far, and for bearing with me. Sometimes I mistreat you, shame you, love you, push you too far... but yet you’re always there for me. You hold me. You hold me.” And I felt held. I felt held by my body and my mind connecting. I felt held by the buoyant water. My arms floated more than usual, I noticed. I could let go, and be held. And I was held. And I was ok.