“For the next week”, she said, “I want you to try and just be. Don’t worry about your to do list, or what your husband should be doing.”
I like my counsellor, well as much as you can like anyone who you’ve only met three times and who just sat and listened to you sob for an hour the first two times. She listens, duh, but she also gets what I’m saying and kind of goes along with me, not in an appeasing way, more as in she’s on the same wavelength. Our first session she honed in quite quickly to my controlling nature, and now she’s trying to help me let go. To. Just. Be.
When she said that to me the other day, the bit about just be, I looked at her and scoffed. Laughed bitingly. Was she out of her mind? But she insisted and I grudgingly promised I’d try. I am. Trying. It’s a funny thing, though. I am this way for good reasons. Those reasons don’t just disappear because I’m trying to just. be. I don’t know how to let go while also keeping the ship afloat.
If I decide not to get on the kids about their chores, I just let it go. Well, you know what happens- they don’t get done. Then the house looks trashed, and I get all stressed and anxious about the house. So, surely it hasn’t worked? I play these scenarios out for most things, and come to the same conclusion. Surely the act of just. being. is a luxury reserved for those who are rich and have beautiful homes, the ability to book a warm holiday away from stress, and staff to take care of most of the logistical crap in their lives? Those people are the ones who get to just. be. How the fuck, then, does she expect ME to do it? I’m behind in my studying, behind in my bills, behind in my housekeeping, 80 pounds overweight, supporting three young kids and trying to pick up the pieces of a marriage that exploded quite extraordinarily, with devastating fall out, a year ago.
Shouldn’t this be the point at which I am trying to get even more control over things? I’m torn, anxious, highly stressed and see myself holding on for dear life to the side of a cliff with the deep dark river of Depression flowing far below. Letting go, just being, sounds wonderful. Just very unrealistic. Letting go means…I’ll fall.