I had my first session with a grief counselor today. I called hospice looking for a group and they suggested I start with an individual counselor. I think they send you there first because they want to sift out the crazies before welcoming them into the group. I'm going to start the group next week. I guess I fooled her.
I spent the entire hour crying and apologizing for being pathetic. It was incredibly cathartic. I got validation that the circumstances surrounding my father's death were pretty awful and traumatic, that I was treated horribly by my sister, that I have a right to grieve just as much as people from normal families, that all of my conflicting feelings are completely normal, and that I have a lot on my plate what with the cat dying, boyfriend breakup, MS, full-time job, single parenthood, yada-yada-yada. Apparently, my self-esteem has taken quite a beating and I need to give myself the time and support I need to grieve.
Who knew I didn't need to be Ms. Pollyanna Superwoman every single moment of the day?
I think it's really hard for many women of our-ish generation to accept that we don't have to play the Glad Game every time something awful happens to us. The realization of and the acceptance that some really horrible, horrible things happened to me over a very short period of time and that there would be something wrong with me if I wasn't angry and depressed and lost was one of the biggest milestones in my therapy. But I still have to remind myself of that sometimes. We all want to be such good sports that we downplay our sorrow and emptiness and that's corrosive. Here endth the sermon. I'm very, very happy for you. You've taken a huge step.
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