Tag: family

It’s that time again to face the unknown answers to questions I am about to be asked. I find my usual spot in the counselor’s office, this time with a whole box of Kleenex in my lap. I’ve been a complete mess since Sunday, with my heart aching from the uncertainty. The thought of hurting the one I love so much weighs heavily on me. I’m terrified of losing the one person I envision a life with; it’s not just my boyfriend I’m afraid to lose, but my best friend as well. In the three days since our “break,” I’ve lain in bed crying, pleading with God to grant me peace and show me what I am supposed to do with this break. I ask why it was necessary and seek clarity. As my counselor takes her seat across from me, she gently inquires, “How did the last week go?” A tightness grips my heart as I respond, “I asked him for a break.” The tears start flowing instantly, and I feel a lump in my throat, as if I’m choking, while my body trembles, succumbing to a full-blown breakdown. She quietly sits in silence, allowing me the space to compose myself, then gently asks, “Is that what you needed?” What? Needed? I feel so lost, and it’s hard to articulate what I really need. I look down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. I whisper, “It doesn’t feel right, but I think it’s what I need.” She continues with another question, “Why do you think that?” Inside, I’m crying out for her to stop asking questions that I clearly don’t have answers to. Then, in a moment of vulnerability, I blurt out, “I am not deserving of his love. I cannot love him in the way he deserves to be loved.” Fear washes over me, and I’m left grappling with this overwhelming confusion.

My counselor, who I appreciate yet sometimes find challenging, asks, “Why do you feel that way?” It’s another tough question, and I can’t help but feel overwhelmed. I respond, “Because the love I receive from him is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. He’s shown me patience, understanding, kindness, and a gentle touch—it’s beautiful but feels like too much for me to deserve. I fear that I don’t know how to navigate this, as it’s such a new sensation, and I worry that if things continue this way, I might unintentionally hurt him. I care for him deeply and can’t bear the thought of causing him pain. It feels safer for me to step back and let him go. Having been through my share of painful experiences, I would endure that pain for the rest of my life if it means he only has to experience it once.”

Counselor said, “I would like to go back to your childhood. When I asked you about the good times you could recall, it seemed like there wasn’t much to discuss. Let’s take a moment to talk about the struggles you’ve faced.” It felt a bit daunting, but this was definitely easier than the next question. As I looked down at the ground, kleenex in hand, I began to share my story…

“I spent alot of time alone and when I wasn’t alone, I felt the need to take care of everyone else by feeding their emotions. I felt the hurt for my mom but couldn’t truly understand what she was going through, I saw the pain in my brother for when he could never do anything right in my dads eyes and the image of my dad grabbing him my the neck and pushing him up to the door in the kitchen. I recalled the times when I was told I was adopted, santa was going to kidnap me, or putting my tricycle at the bottom of the mud road knowing it was too far for me to go to grab it. I saw a sister who became pregnant and was in pain from a boyfriend who wanted her to have an abortion only to return and given the silent treatment instead of love from my dad. I saw a newborn baby, my niece be born with a dyaphramic hernia with a lack of chance of survival. I saw a sister that hated me and could do nothing but compare what I had and she didnt. I saw a dad that I wanted to be loved by but always felt like I fell short. In ways that he allowed my uncles to make comments or touch me that made me uncomfortable, or chased around from a friend who wanted a kiss on the lips. I saw a brother who sexually molested me by rubbing his penis between my buttcheeks but knew I needed to remain silent because he was slow and he didn’t know better.

I witnessed boyfriends who took pride in showing me off, feeling empowered by the attention I attracted from others. Yet, I grappled with feelings of being cheated on, abused, abandoned, and ashamed. I was driven by a deep desire to mend the aspects of our lives that were affecting my children and stepchildren. I felt it was essential to foster harmony with the ex-wives, understanding that it would ease the burden on the kids. I sought to improve relationships with my boyfriends and husbands to build bridges with their ex-partners, putting aside their differences for the sake of the children. I made the effort to set my own differences aside with my kids’ dad, not because it was simple, but because ensuring my children felt loved, seen, and heard was of utmost importance to me. I gave my heart fully to others, often without receiving anything in return, embracing a life shaped by this dynamic. It became my responsibility to maintain peace, to remain silent when necessary, and to shoulder burdens so that others could find relief. I grew accustomed to feeling unworthy, insufficient, or not chosen, and I accepted it as part of my reality”. And then I stopped talking.

My Counselor gently says, “You have been through a lot.” In that moment, the tears begin to flow. No one has ever told me that I’ve endured so much or acknowledged how well I’ve held it together. She offers a suggestion: “I’d like you to try a method called Shadow Work. It’s a way to reconnect with your inner child, and many have found it helpful in understanding their decisions, shaping who they are today, and working through life’s challenges. It can guide you in releasing any guilt or shame and letting go of burdens that no longer serve you.” She notes down a book and its author for me, then adds, “Our time is up, but I’m truly proud of your courage in taking a break from your boyfriend to focus on finding yourself.” I look at her, my heart heavy with questions, “Will he be okay? Will he wait for me? Will he come back when I find healing?” She reassures me, “If it’s in God’s will and in divine timing, he will.” That reassurance is what finally wrapped me in a sense of peace as I left her room that day.

After session 2, I felt an urgent need to explore the feelings swirling within me. It was essential to gain clarity because I wanted to do the necessary work to lift this emotional burden. The undeniable truth is that I love my boyfriend, so I understood that it wasn’t love prompting my instinct to withdraw. Yet, I found myself grappling with the question: what was really at the root of these feelings?

As I sat on my couch, reflecting on my journey, I was enveloped by a blend of frustration and hope, feeling emotionally drained yet yearning for change. After dedicating 25 years to my job, I’ve navigated the intricate web of relationships with unwavering resilience. Knowing my daughter and son are well and safe brings me a sense of peace that anchors me amid the storms of life.

A profound realization flooded over me: I’ve devoted countless hours to caring for others, and now it’s my time to reflect on what I truly need. From my childhood, I embraced every emotion within my family, finding joy in supporting them, be it caring for my mom during her illness or managing household responsibilities like cooking and cleaning. Nurturing those around me—my boyfriends, my husbands, my kids, and my stepkids—has always been my instinct. Now, as my daughter embarks on her own journey and my son prepares to graduate, I find myself on the cusp of an exciting new chapter. This isn’t about leaving my boyfriend behind; it’s about honoring my own needs and dreams, carving out precious time for my growth and happiness. This newfound awareness has unveiled a tapestry of possibilities awaiting me in the future.

My boyfriend came over on a Sunday afternoon, and after enjoying a walk in the park and sharing a crustless pizza, I found myself on the couch, feeling a heavy mix of discomfort and anxiety. Deep down, I recognized the difficult decision I needed to make, but it filled me with an overwhelming sense of dread. Rather than peace, I was caught in a storm of fear—the fear of losing him, of making a mistake, of the emotions that could spill over, and of losing myself if he were absent from my life. Taking a deep breath, I looked into his eyes and said, “This isn’t working.” Tears streamed down my face, and my heart felt so heavy. When he asked, “What’s changed?” it felt like a weight that was too much to bear; why was I expected to provide answers when I was still searching for clarity? Nothing had truly changed. I love him deeply and yearn for a future together, recognizing that he is still my person. Yet, I struggled to express the turbulence within me. “I’m trying to protect my daughter, who was hurt when she and her boyfriend were told they couldn’t join us for Thanksgiving. I want you to spend more time with your son, who really needs his dad given his challenging relationship with his mom. I just need some time for myself to rediscover who I am.” Those reasons felt so small and manageable, yet I questioned what the deeper truth was. I felt lost for words, but one thing remained clear: it wasn’t due to a lack of love.

I walked him to his truck parked in my driveway, feeling the weight of the moment. As I held him tightly in a long embrace, uncertainty filled my heart—was this our last goodbye? I planted a gentle kiss on his lips and watched as he drove away, a deep ache settling within me. What have I just done? Why, God, why has this happened?

I find myself in the comforting yet familiar room with my therapist, who gently asks, “How are you doing today?” In that moment, I reflect, wondering how she perceives my state of being. It’s clear to both of us that I’m grappling with emotions, as evidenced by the box of tissues nearby, preparing for the wave of feelings that often accompanies such questions. When you’re in a vulnerable space, even a simple, caring inquiry like, “How are you? Are you okay?” or a gentle hug can feel like a dam breaking, releasing a torrent of tears. That’s exactly what unfolded; as I let those emotions surge forth, I paused to catch my breath and softly replied, “okay.” Deep down, we both understand that this is not the full picture, especially after the outburst of tears, yet she compassionately accepts my response. As she inquires about my week since our last session, I find myself feeling somewhat adrift, admitting I’m unsure if I remembered to brush my teeth before arriving. Eventually, I share how I’ve been gaining comfort from listening to Craig Groeschel from Life Church on YouTube and taking walks in the park to discover those small pockets of peace. Her supportive response of, “that’s good,” encourages me as she asks, “what do you feel in those moments?” I take a moment to gather my thoughts and convey that I experience peace, reassurance, and hope. His words resonate deeply with me, especially when he speaks about feeling lost, filling me with strength and the realization that I’m not alone in this struggle; he has traversed those feelings, and if he can find his way through, perhaps I can too. When she probes into my relationship with my boyfriend, I confess that I feel an instinctual pushback. It’s not a lack of love; rather, it’s the complexity of my emotions that I struggle to navigate. When he reaches out for closeness, I feel a wrenching ache in my heart, a knot in my stomach. I long to draw nearer to him, yet something within me holds me back. This recognition brings forth fresh tears. She gently asks what I wish to do with this feeling. In that moment, I find myself questioning why she asks so many questions and why she doesn’t just direct me toward what I should do. Ultimately, I reveal that I don’t have the answers. He is genuinely wonderful, loving, and caring—the best partner I could ask for—yet the turmoil inside me leaves me perplexed. I understand it’s not a lack of love, and that’s the only clarity I possess. I express how the thought of hurting him deeply troubles me, and it sorrowfully weighs on me to acknowledge that I might be causing him pain. I want nothing more than for him to find happiness; he deserves someone capable of mirroring the love he gives. I want to be that person, but fear envelops me. She then gently states that our time is up. Ugh, “What do you mean our time’s up? I am not finished. I need you to tell me what to do next. I crave comfort.” She suggests, “Should we plan on meeting again next week?” I nod in agreement, thanking her for her time as I leave the session with tears streaming down my cheeks, feeling emotionally drained and without more clarity than when I arrived.