Counseling.

I have no clue what I’m doing. I just do the motions: sandals on, jacket slung around my spring shoulders, turn the key, drive the highway, walk the steps, pay the co-pay, and purchase my seat next to her on the mini couch, in the room with the jeweled-turquoise walls and the truth flying out of my body and onto her every inch of being.

It’s aggressive and shy at the same time. It’s a binge and a fasting in the same moment. It’s a rocket and blade of grass. It’s high-altitude winds and a sullied stagnant puddle. It’s symphony and a solo. It’s all of it and none of it and everything in between.

Counseling.

I tell her the truth about how it hurts and how it heals. I tell of my youth, I tell of my present. I tell of every moment in between and every moment I anxiously try to see coming. I tell of the words said and unsaid, the touches made and unmade, the forgotten and the too-close. I tell her all that I know, paying close attention to leave little out, because I believe it all counts in the circle of things. The details inside the round-and-round of my story is like a scribbled globe of endless circles, but it’s this way and that way and back to this and back to that. It’s clockwise and counter, quick left, slow right and around and around again. And just as that feels so redundant to read, it is that redundant in life. It’s both too many words and not enough words at the exact same time.

I never knew there was a permission-slip waiting on the inside of that brick building. I never knew there was a person out there who would take such care of things. And by that I do not mean fix things. By that I mean: take their time, take their slow listening, take their gentle revealing and confident correcting of upside-down thought patterns, take their nurture, take their understanding, take their empathy and with-ness, their advocacy and sense, take their aerial view, and gift it to you in care. Spirit with skin on, maybe.

stigma

[stig-muh]

noun, plural stigmata [stig-muh-tuh, stig-mah-tuh, –matuh] (Show IPA), stigmas.

  1. A mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach, as on one’s reputation.
  2.  Medicine/Medical. a) a mental or physical mark that is characteristic of a defect or disease: the stigmata of leprosy. b) a place or point on the skin that bleeds during certain mental states, as in hysteria.
  3. Zoology. a) a small mark, spot, or pore on an animal or organ. b) the distinct eyespot of a protozoan. c) an entrance into the respiratory system of insects.

Give me the stigma of therapy. Give me the stain of freedom-work. Give me the surprising goodness of middle places. Give me the hysteria and the healing and the Dear-God-I’m-finally-beginning-to-understand world that this stigma offers me. Mark me with the spots of shoulders lightened and a body alive once again.

Maybe I am that of the insect. Like the one in that final definition. Give me the stigma of therapy, if it means these hours on this couch open up my respiratory system and in enters the light and the oxygen and the breathing again. Give me the door flung open wide to the entrance of my lungs. Give me this hurricane air tossing fear off it’s hinges, filling this body with breath that tastes like movement and grace and room and nearness.

Yes, that. Give me all of that.

Give me the work of paying attention, if it means these eyes can finally see. Give me the work of climbing out of boxes, if it means who I am is, after all, free.

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