Happy Friday the 13th! It feels like only yesterday we were celebrating the day of all things spooky.
It’s been nearly two months since I decided to get over my divorce. I’m glad I made the decision to go to therapy. Having a personality scientist spell things out that I probably didn’t want to face (definitely didn’t want to face) has helped me immensely.
I don’t think psychologists can cure depression, but they can put you in the position where you decide to heal yourself.
The irony is, I know what will make me better. I know that sitting inside sulking is not going to achieve great things, and I know that until you make the conscious decision to get better – nothing changes.
I said all of these things to my therapist yesterday. Then she looked at the pile of papers she was going to give me to read and said, “I don’t really think you need these after all.”
My weekly sessions haven’t taught me how to feel good, but they have taught me why my marriage made me feel so bad. As someone who would rather swallow blood than pride, it’s taken the assistance of a PhD holding Princess to break down the behaviors of my ex into a language that has finally penetrated the eight years I endured in utter denial.
“He didn’t treat you right. He isn’t good for you.”
These are the affirmations I’m focussed on now. While they may not be the “Be easy on yourself” notions the doctor had in mind, they’re helping to settle into acceptance.
The sun helps too. I finally feel a sincere affirmation of its return.
Perhaps I’ll start being easier on myself after all.