Just Had My Mind Blown. Now I Need Psychotherapy.
A friendly note to all you thirds out there: You said that 2nd degree was like Neophyte on crack, but I didn't think you actually MEANT it. You had such a resigned, loving smile on your face. You made it sound like it wasn't going to hurt. Much. Here's what you should have done: Grab my arm, haul me to the perimeter of the chaos and look me straight in the eye. You should have said, "You don't want to go in there. No, you REALLY don't want to go in there!" But you didn't. No. You just said, "Well, it's like Neophyte on crack." But Neophyte didn't strip me of all that I knew to be true and then yank me by the neck out of my womb-like slumber into the bowels of my greatest fears, in front of a big floor to ceiling mirror. Nope.
So I had a reading. A brutal, real, tough love reading. I have since learned that I'm getting called on my shit. And if I refuse, It's gonna hurt. A lot. I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that I was gently reminded that if I don't show myself to those who love me, they can't have real relationships with me. And I was gently reminded that I'm not o.k., and that I better get my ass into therapy. Because the alternative is, well, not attractive. Grief counseling. Family of origin issues. Abuse issues. Abandonment. Trust. Security.
So I actually found a pagan friendly psychotherapist. Thank you, Universe. And I'm gonna go. And I'm gonna journal. And I'm gonna take on the monster in the closet. Gotta go set up my grief altar, as per my instructions. Anybody got a nose plug?