Today, my therapist and I decided that I’ve graduated, more or less. I’m going to see her in a month and we’ll decide whether the monthly check-ins will work, whether I need more frequent sessions, or whether we’re ready for a break. She said, “You are an entirely different person than you were when we started in the fall.” My first visit with her was on October 14, 2020, six and a half months ago.
We’ve talked about a lot of things in that time—mostly expected topics: body image, perfectionism, anxiety, childhood trauma, my narcissistic mother and bipolar father, my estranged brother, guilt, traumatic childbirth x2, and a million emotions. But, we also delved into some more unexpected topics: my relationships with other women in my life, feeling isolated, and what truly brings me happiness.
Over the course of therapy, I started recovering from 25 years with active bulimia, told my husband that it’s been a problem this whole 13 years we’ve been together, told my mom that my childhood was difficult (fucking awful, but baby steps), made one last communication attempt with my brother, and significantly lessened my anxiety. I’ve also changed the way I look at a lot of things—my friendship needs, my culpability in expecting my mom to change, how much I care about how others view me, and being more empathetic to others (among other things).
I’m certainly not done with therapy, and I’m not deluding myself into thinking I’m “recovered”. But, I am significantly happier and significantly less anxious. So, I’ll take it.