As I pulled myself to the waking world yesterday morning, I did as I normally would and reached for my phone (I know, I know) and began to check the usual things. I check the weather, email, peruse Huffington Post, and FB. It was on FB I began reading an article about the wreck the previous evening. It was a pretty gnarly wreck and two people were killed. The names had been released and as I was scanning the artcile I recognized the last name of one of the victims. In an instant I connected the name and the age. It was the son of my therapist. Such a sinking feeling I cannot describe. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
My therapist, she is a fantastic woman. I think I will call her Carla here. I don't want to keep saying "my therapist" over and over and I don't want to put her name here. I met Carla a little over two years ago. I had a lot of shit going on. Lots. I met one therapist and saw her a couple of times. I didn't like her and the fact that I really loathed the idea of therapy to begin with didn't help matters. She kept suggesting my problems were rooted in shame and wanted me to go so far back in time. Help me with present day shit, Lady.
So the first time I met Carla, I was quite squinty-eyed. I had agreed to try again though. I just started talking, about the stuff that was on my mind at that moment in time. I'd give her a little history, too. She didn't ask a ton of questions. She just listened. In talking to her, she'd pull a little out of me and help connect things. I have always described my method of thought process as organizing files and boxes in my head. She used that and helped me organize and rearrange the stuff in my noggin. Over this past two years the most time between appointments with her was 6 weeks at one point. We decided that might be a bit much and have never gone more than 4 weeks since then. There was a time this past fall when things went all to shit that I saw her twice a week for a while. Our normal is every two weeks.
She is a significant other in my life in that she has listened as I poured out my guts. She didn't bat an eye when I swore. She adopted my "language" and if I called someone a dumbass she would, too. She would give me shit because I didn't really let my emotions out. I've cried (ok, sobbed and snotted and hiccupped) in front of her three times. One, when my marriage was obviously over, when I finally accepted I'm a lesbian, and when my relationship this past fall shit the bed. And she always always listened and then helped me put it into perspective, helped me find the good in the most fucked up of situations. I hope beyond all hope she has such a support network for her now.
A friend pointed out that the death of Carla's son could have a huge impact on my life as well. I feel so much for her right now, as a mother, as a human, as someone that has listened to stories about her kid. I wasn't thinking about myself at all. I am good. I am in a very good place in my life and feel strong and able to cope with it all. I couldn't imagine how it might impact me so directly. And then it dawned on me... I would feel like a real shitheel ever talking to Carla again about the piddly shit in life. I wouldn't dare complain about my teenager to a woman that lost her son. I don't want to talk about the stresses of navigating this world as a gay, single mom. Holy shit. I want to hold HER hand and listen to her pour her guts out. I want to help HER!
And there it is. It is very likely the end of a relationship that has been a steady in my life for a while now. It is sad. It will be different. But I am ok with that. It's all a process. I'll be organizing those fucking boxes in my head for a bit, but that's ok. After all, she is the one that helped put those tools in place.