I’m sitting in the waiting area of the counseling center where I meet with my therapist at four o’clock every Monday afternoon.
I have my regular Flat White that I get from Starbucks on my way (if I didn’t have time to stop by the legendary Civil Coffee for their delicious black coffee).
To my left, there’s an old guy tapping on an iPad with his forefinger. To my right there’s a handsome fellow with a salt-and-pepper beard filling out the paperwork. Next to him is a boy with that 10-11 year old chubbiness. His Mom is sitting catty corner with a concerned pride in her eyes. You know the kind of look only moms give.
The thing that always strikes me when I sit here is the normal-ness of everyone. No one looks sickly or agitated or depressed.
It makes me wonder why they’re here. Did they experience a death close to them? Are they having a midlife crisis?
Are the kids being bullied at school? Were their parents divorced? Do they struggle with intense self-worth or anxiety like so many kids their age these days?
I want to both cry, imagining what they must have experienced, and tell them I’m so proud of them for being healthy enough to get help.
I think through all the reasons these normal people are getting therapy and then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and think, “Well, you look kind of normal. Why are you getting therapy?”
I’m sometimes kind of sheepish about using the word “therapy.” It sounds so clinical and dramatic. You don’t, typically “go to therapy” unless something crazy happened to you (even though you probably should anyways).
Despite this, I’m trying to be as open and honest about it as I would about anything else I do. It’s making me process life at a level and with a greater bird’s-eye perspective than when I’m slogging through life moment by moment.
Which is why I go.
Meeting with someone every week to talk through pain and life experiences and relationships and family and God can be intense. In fact, I sometimes leave very mad because we stir up a lot of emotions but rarely actually fix them.
There’s never a “Do this and you’ll no longer feel that” moment. He told me straight up that would never happen, which made me a little mad.
But what it did was blow-up my perception that wounds and lies we’ve accumulated over a lifetime can be fixed in one moment, through one prayer, after one breakthrough, or from one session with a counselor.
Scratch that.
This perception was already shattered by five years of grief. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me healing takes time. The very term “to process” literally indicates a passage of time.
As self-aware and healthy as I liked to think myself, the reality is I’ve been running from facing my emotions for years. I’ve been chasing that “moment” when the underlying anger in my heart suddenly goes away. (Or the fear or self-consciousness or shame.)
And when it doesn’t, I turn on my phone.
Just for an example, let’s talk about anger for a little bit.
My anger can always be traced to something deeper happening in my heart. The purpose of anger, I think, is to draw attention to what’s going on in the heart. (Does that terminology bother you? “The purpose of anger?” It bothers me. But God created anger and so I can only assume it fills some sort of purpose and this seems to make the most sense.)
Anger often exposes a lie I believe about myself, or identifies something I should talk about with a friend, or it simply is my heart responding to deep pain I can’t explain.
But instead of facing it, identifying it, figuring out where it’s coming from, and processing it, I try to get rid of it by going to church, singing praise songs, or fasting and praying. All good things–and all part of the process–but often, they’re my attempt to by-pass real heart-level processing. I’m trying to avoid facing whatever it is that’s making me angry. And if church doesn’t work, I turn on my phone. Sometimes, I just go straight to my phone.
You know what happens then?
My heart is filled with unprocessed pain that anger is screaming for me to notice, and my mind is filled with (for the most part) meaningless entertainment squeezing out any sort of creative thinking.
And then I wonder why I don’t have peace and can’t concentrate.
I’ve been waiting for the day when thinking about my Mom’s death doesn’t cause me to question God’s wisdom or when thinking about my childhood friends making fun of my weight doesn’t stir up life-long shame over my looks (or whatever painful memory I’m processing).
What I’m learning to do (and I’m still very bad at it) is to sit and process what I’m feeling and why I’m feeling it, instead of medicating.
And every time I do that, it gets easier. Every time I think the scary thoughts, they become less intimidating the next time around.
Every time I face the anger churning inside screaming for me to notice the shame I feel for my personality, looks, or failures, the heat of it is cooled. I can stop, acknowledge it, and move on with my day. That’s the goal, at least.
I really don’t know if this makes sense. It’s hard to describe. Maybe I’ll have better words for it one day.
I’m not talking about wallowing in pain or making it your identity. Nor am I ignoring the important work of forgiveness or suggesting we should coddle grudges.
I just don’t think healing or even forgiveness is as momentous as we think it is. Are there moments of breakthrough? Yes. But I guarantee you, the breakthroughs will come after the hard work of processing your pain, feeling it as deep as it goes, letting it wreck you, and then getting back up. This means the work is going to be continual. It’s going to be “a process.”
Regarding forgiveness, I’ve found it interesting the way Jesus handles it. Sometimes it seems like we think it’s this intense, grueling thing we have to do until we feel a breakthrough. But Jesus treats it very casually.
He says, “But when you are praying, first forgive anyone you are holding a grudge against, so that your Father in heaven will forgive your sins, too.”
It’s important in the sense that our own experience of forgiveness is directly correlated to our forgiving others.
But even still, Jesus treats it extremely casually, like it’s this simple two second exercise you do before you pray. Face your grudge, let it go, and move on with your prayer.
Anyways. I just think it’s interesting. It removes the pressure to feel some sort of breakthrough right away and instead turns it into this ritual that embeds forgiveness into our consciousness and spiritual rhythms.
That sounded super new-age-y. I promise I didn’t get that from my therapist. He’s actually very intellectual and not touchy-feely at all. (I just felt like I should clarify that.)
All of this talk about pain and looking it in the eye and processing it reminds me of this incredible song by Colony House, particularly the bridge and last chorus. It’s been a mainstay of mine for years. Here it is (lyrics below):
“Moving Forward”
by Colony House
I found life and I found laughter.
In forgiveness, I found rest.
On the shoulders of redemption,
I found hope when hope was dead.
I could lose it in a moment,
So I dare not close my eyes.
I’ll watch fear fall with the sunset
And see hope rise with the tide.
And when the pain is true,
Sometimes these troubles prove
That I’m alive.
My eyes are open,
My heart is beating,
My lungs are full,
And my body’s breathing.
I’m moving forward.
I found my freedom.
I found the life that gave a reason to live.
As this dusty road now settles
And I see what lay before,
Every tear that held a broken dream
Is now shattered on the floor.
And now bursting forth in splendor
Are the blossoms of second tries
Because dreams that bear the mark of love
Are dreams that never die.
Sometimes…
Life can feel so unkind.
Sorrow won’t define me
Sorrow just reminds my soul… my soul:
My eyes are open,
My heart is beating,
My lungs are full,
And my body’s breathing.
I’m moving forward.
I found my freedom.
I know this sorrow.
I know the heartache.
I know with fear comes
A tragic heartbreak.
Well I’m moving forward.
I found my freedom.
I found the life that gave a reason to love.
Love you guys.
C.W.