I use the term therapy and you could call it counselling, or seeing psychologist, whatever term is familiar, you will know what I mean. I want to recommend therapy for lots of reasons.

Firstly it’s a relationship that offers sanctuary. When I sit with my therapist anything can be aired and explored. I say sit as some may have images of reclining on couches, however I’ve never laid down on a couch, I sit.

Then there is the unconditional acceptance of whatever I feel whatever I think and whatever I say. That’s unconditional support and acceptance of me. It’s potent. That’s therapy.

I feel empowered to stand on my own and I feel brave beyond what my innate super-powers would normally allow. I doubt I would be writing here if my therapist hadn’t encouraged me to start a little writing project.

She uses a Process Work orientation. The best. When she holds the mirror I like what I see. It’s a very special relationship that’s all about me and how I am in the world.

I know myself better, I am not as afraid of the world that Mottsu couldn’t live in… not as afraid as I used to be. I’m making my own way, maybe not boldly (and maybe bold is coming) but certainly with more awareness of a whole raft of things.
Yep I really ♥ therapy.

I would be here without therapy, that much it true, and I would be duller less me sort of me. Less true to myself.

Robertson rang on Saturday morning to say our regular coffee at the market would be in the ‘new place’, rather our usual coffee spot.

“Sorry” I said, “I won’t make it to coffee today. I have a therapy session at 10:30…”

Phew. I had said it. I had admitted to my ongoing and ad-hoc therapy. I was pleased with myself for having mentioned it casually to a friend. An edge crossed, even if it was not as easy to ‘fess up to as I would have liked.

Robertson, to his credit, didn’t skip a beat and suggested a catch up over brunch the next day.

When we met he asked how my massage had been. Massage? For a moment we were both puzzled and muddled. He thought I had gone for a beauty treatment or a therapeutic massage.

The relief I had felt thinking that Robertson, a good friend, had simply accepted my use of therapy, turned to dismay, as I realised I had been misunderstood. Haha…. I sort of nervously laughed it away.

Therapy. I would love talking about therapy to be easier, more everyday. Therapy is one of the things that has helped me through grief, it is one of the ways I have looked after myself.

I must have bats in my belfry for shrugging off something so important, and something I should talk about and explain more. After all, where is the stigma? Only in my mind? I know I perceive some reproach from the world at large, and there’s no specific criticism. It could be just me…

During next week’s coffee with Robertson I’ll tell him more.