Grief School Dropout
Confession: I have never been to any sort of therapy. Secondary confession: I truly believe every person, especially the one currently typing this column, could greatly benefit from professional help. See, while it would be easy to go on and on about how writing, or baking, or painting everything from furniture to pet portraits makes great therapy, which, it does, I cannot deny that there are times in the recesses of the night where I think to myself, “You are one screwed up chickadee and you should probably get someone to help you with that.” Yet, I never have. I rationalize my non-therapy shortcomings with cost concerns and time constraints and, well, with pride. People are always telling me how “strong” I am. Where once I didn’t understand why anyone would think that, now I sort of see where that statement applies. Anytime someone loses a child and doesn’t go stark raving mad, there’s an accomplishment to be realized. But, there is no pride in a broken soul. There are no awards for someone who looks ok on the surface and breaks down privately. There isn’t a right way or a wrong way to do any of this. Besides, I like showing people that you can still speak in coherent sentences and even crack an occasional joke after going through a tragedy. I like thinking that someone saw or read or watched something I did and thought, “Hey, I didn’t think I could hang on much longer, but look at that woman. Maybe I can at least seem happy one day, too.” And that, my friends, is why I decided to do therapy via Facebook. It is also why, a scant month later, I’m a Facebook group dropout.
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