Disclaimer: I was going to wait to write this until it’s officially been one year, and who knows — I may write a sequel, but since there’s nothing magical about one year, there’s no point to wait.

January 19.
I’ll never forget it. I was drowning. I felt like I was coming out of my skin. I was miserable and desperately seeking . . .something. It was more than restlessness. It was hurt. It was fear. It was shame. And it was slowly killing me.

I sought a place where  I could be anonymous. A big church. A program. I was just a face in a crowd. No one knew me, and that’s what I thought I wanted. I sat there, listening to people share their stories of addiction or abuse or struggle and so desperately wanted to “fit” so I could heal.
Except.
I didn’t fit and I wasn’t going to heal. Not there. And I knew it, but I didn’t know what to do about it.

I have amazing people in my life. Truly. People who care about me and my well-being and think of me far often than I realize. As I was leaving that night, I got a text from one of those people. It wasn’t much. It was two words. “You okay?”
. . .
No.
No, I wasn’t.
Not everyone is a safe place to say “no. I’m not OK. I feel shame, and hurt, and anger, and despair and I don’t know how to fix it”, but this one was, so I did. The conversation led to a referral to a therapist (or, if that word scares you, a counselor). I made an appointment for the following week.

January 26
I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t need a therapist. Crazy people need therapists. Or therapists need therapists. People with medical, psychological issues need therapists. Not me. I work for a church. I can’t go to therapy. What will people say? (Pro tip: IT.DOES.NOT.MATTER.WHAT.ANYONE.SAYS)

But, I went. Even though it was awkward and it felt like a terrible first date. Even though I was uncomfortable and didn’t know where to look (make eye contact? Probably, but I had just met her. look at the clock? No, that’s rude. The wall? Then I look like a crazy person with no social skills. My feet! That’s an excellent place to look for a solid hour. Again with the social skills thing, but we’ll work that out later).

And I kept going. Every week. Even when it started to get hard. Even when I didn’t want to talk to her. Even when I had an existential crisis and quit my job without having another and then embarked on the worst 4 months of my life and didn’t have the emotional energy to feel, let alone talk about what I’m feeling.

And I still go. Even though she asks the hard questions. . (.or maybe because she asks the hard questions. )

I went today. Our conversations are easy, now. Well. They come easily, but they are full of wrestling and asking and seeking and not knowing.

I go because everyone deserves a safe place to stretch out and be who they are. I go because as much as I didn’t want to be known, what I needed was for someone to know me because I’m worthy of being known. I go because everyone deserves to know that how they’re doing life is just fine, no matter what the haters say, or  to help them figure out a better way if it’s not fine. I go because I am the author of my own story, and I want to write a good one.