I don’t usually talk about my therapy session because I’m a firm believer that going to therapy is like going to Vegas — what happens in therapy (for the most part) stays in therapy.
I am happy, though, to reflect on how I think I’ve grown in the last year since I’ve been going to therapy.
As life, or luck or God, may have it, I started going to therapy 2 months before my grandmother passed away. Things were heavy at that time for me because I was one of my grandmother’s primary caregivers and even though those two words are said easily, they have a lot of implied responsibility.
Having my therapist on call when my grandmother was in the hospital and dying made all the difference for me. She was someone outside of my immediate circle that I could talk to and lean on, in ways that I couldn’t lean on those around me.
For the last year I haven’t been afraid to dump my problems on my therapist because she’s the one person who I don’t have to worry how thin of a rope she may be walking on.
In the last year, I’ve grown. I’ve learned to prioritize, to cut myself some slack, to put my happiness first. Therapy is not a universal prescription for grief. I’m just glad it’s one more outlet I can utilize.
