A Letter to my Therapist
I have been coming to terms with the fact that I might not be the same person anymore, strikingly so, ever since I left my old job. It was not a job, it was something I did with passion, and the reason I woke up every single day for more than 5 years. I knew that the world is ugly, and I could make it a bit more bearable. The people I met, the stories I heard, the experiences I witnessed and knowing more and more people every day who have brilliant different lives kept me going. It was worth the mental breakdowns, the trauma, having a gun pointed at my head, falling apart every 6 months, and burning out slowly, but consistently… all of it was worth it. I refused to let another queer child grow up hating themselves, I just didn’t realize that I couldn’t save us all. And that realization killed me, bit by bit until by the end of my 22nd year alive, I was a shell of a human. I wish we talked more about the pain of dedicating your life to such a cause, the constant nagging in your head that you’ll never do enough, that with every step forward you take, there are systems and religions and institutions and people and circumstances that work solely on pulling you backward. I did what I did passionately, with the most genuine love and compassion. I do not regret a thing, I do not regret the mistakes I made, the people I helped, and those I disappointed, the visible and invisible. I did it with pride, and now that I cannot anymore, it feels like a piece of me has been discarded. I do not know myself without my fight, I do not recognize a face that isn’t struggling, and I’m not used to having space inside my ribs that isn’t constantly hurting.
I had to physically leave, to start over, to take care of myself, I’ve abandoned myself for years. You helped me a lot, the last 2 years have shaped me tremendously. When I first came into your office, I was a mess, I didn’t know what even hurt let alone how to fix it! I was heartbroken, abandoned, traumatized, and worst of all, unequipped to deal with all my sadness. You taught me how to transform myself, in a way that I didn’t think was possible.
A few months ago, I discovered that my best friend is a rapist, I don’t think anything ever broke me as this fact did. One day, he was my world, my confidante, and the person my uncles loved and invited for dinner, and the next day, he became a stranger, as if the last years we spent together were all a lie. I am still learning to reconcile the person I knew with the person he is. I am actively reminding myself every morning that what he did doesn’t take away from his goodness, but his goodness will always be tainted by his evil. I try, in my head, to not be too hard on myself every time I miss him. I am allowed to miss him. I am allowed to grieve a friendship that existed in every corner of my being for almost a decade. How am I not? After all, we were something, regardless of everything. Some days are harder to handle, the parts of me that are so radical and empowered refuse to miss him and I cannot find it in me to ever forgive him. You also taught me to not blame myself, after all, I was oblivious. But this obliviousness is what hunts me; how will I ever trust my instincts again? How will I forgive myself for not seeing it sooner? For not saving them from him? Why do I always have to play God! You tell me it will pass, and that we learn, and some lessons are harder than others, however much we resent that. So I accept it, as it is, and gradually learn to live with it every day. I may never forgive him, but I forgive myself, and that must be enough.
Now every time I hear the word hospital, I automatically picture the moment I was crouched in the corridor, waiting for one of the doctors to answer my questions and tell me if my best friend was going to be okay. And when I walk past the hotel where we stayed I can’t breathe.
I isolated myself, from the world and its noises; I cannot handle being touched, approached, or smiled at anymore. I find comfort in my family and push away the rest. My family; the people I chose to keep close and never let go of, not for the blood we share, but for the tears we did. I stopped smiling in pictures, I stopped entertaining mediocrity, I stopped approaching people, and started approaching myself. More and more, I find peace in this quiet, in waking up every day knowing that I have no one to love that day but me. I am back to reading as many books as humanely possible, sketching, and watching silly videos while laughing until I can’t breathe. I look at my naked body and I adore it; a pillar that remained strong for me, yet in need of so much nurturing. So that’s what I do, I cook all the meals that I love, slather my face in coconut oil, and occasionally paint my nails. I add artwork to my skin, patches of memories, a scrapbook if you will, eternal, till death do us part.
Somehow, incredibly, after all the pain, I finally found joy. I am the fullest I’ve been my whole life, so many unanswered questions that don’t keep me awake at night anymore. My body is starting to thank me for the resilience, my mind is shifting, changing, and every day evolving. I now know what I can and cannot allow in my life, I’m guarding my peace with the utmost strength, feeding my work and my relationships with commitment, and saying no more often. You helped me find this in me, you showed me the ropes and I held onto them and never let go.
I realize now that the greatest act of resistance I am capable of is to take care of myself. I realize that it took all that violence to create my kindness. The universe is immense, and I am so small and disposable, and yet for what it’s worth, -and regardless of it all-, I admire it, I stand in the midst of it, I surround myself with the people that I love and the joy that I cherish, and still wake up, every day, not wanting to die anymore.
