There is this beautifully devastating quote that is often attributed to C.S. Lewis: “I sat with anger long enough, she told me her real name was grief.” I think about this quote often and when I do, I always remember my best and worst therapist. It was after almost three years of trying and failing to stay pregnant, and then trying and failing to get pregnant. Therapy helped me to process my grief.
Between my first and second daughter there were three years of miscarriages and a rage at other women like I had never felt. Every time I saw a family with two or more children, I got upset. Every time I saw a pregnant woman, I got angry.
The Rage of Loss
I knew I was heading down a path I couldn’t control or veer off of when I was dropping my daughter off at her toddler program one day. There was another mom there, who had two children already and now was obviously pregnant. I was enraged. I called my husband while I was in the car on the way to work after drop off, screaming and sobbing into the phone about her selfishness, about how dare she and why does she get to have another child? Why can’t I? Why is it so unfair?
He listened patiently, then did what he does, which is to try to validate my feelings and then fix them. Later on that week he approached me with, “I’m worried that you are so focused on another child, that you’re missing out on the one we have. I’m worried we will never be enough for you.”
After that, I didn’t share the deep sadness and loss I felt every time I got my period. I kept my rage sequestered to myself. To my car. To the middle of the night when no one would know I was crying because of the ache in my heart that was pulling me under.
Then Comes Therapy
I had seen other therapists before–all women–but I was so deep into my rage and grief that I didn’t want anyone who had any possibility of having been through something even remotely similar. But I knew I needed help. I didn’t want to feel the way I was feeling anymore. And my husband was right–I was missing out.
So I called up a therapy practice and told them, “I’m dealing with having multiple miscarriages and I don’t want a therapist that could possibly have gone through this. I don’t want to see a woman.” So they gave me some early 20s, Pepsi-swigging-twizzlers-loving-chews-with-his mouth-open-still-working-on-his-license male therapist.
When I met him, I couldn’t help but think, “You are probably one of the most annoying people I have ever met. I hate that you chew with your mouth open and eat candy during MY therapy session. Now I’m going to have to find a different therapist and I hate you for not being what I NEED!” The worst therapist.
Our first 50-minute meeting, we spent 35 minutes going over my intake form, 10 minutes of him telling me his style, three minutes of me crying, and a two-minute payment and goodbye. In our second, third, and fourth meetings, I spent 45 of my 50 minutes crying.
At the beginning of our second meeting though, I kept trying to stop myself and apologizing. And he said, “You don’t need to apologize to me. I’m here for you, I have no expectations, and you won’t disappoint me.” See? The best therapist.
Just What I Needed
Being witnessed in such an open and pure way, with no need to apologize, no expectation of conversation, no expectations at all . . . that’s what I needed. I needed to grieve. I needed a space to just be in my grief and anger. To not have to be a mom, or wife, or friend, or patient, or student. I didn’t need advice, or questions, or suggestions on how to move through it. I just needed permission to sit in it. He gave that to me.
I only saw him six times and by the fifth and sixth times, I didn’t need to cry for 45 minutes. We chatted about what my next steps would be. He gave me homework.
Over those handful of sessions, my rage decreased and I was able to look on fondly when I saw babies and those rocking the baby bump. The sadness dissipated and I was able to enjoy the child I did have. It was a relief to not walk around wearing the heaviness of anger and grief like a winter coat in the summer.
My Guiding Light When it Gets Dark
It was also around this time that we were starting to listen to the Frozen 2 soundtrack a lot. Anna has a song in the second half about grief and depression called “The Next Right Thing.” This song made me feel seen. It validated and illustrated how I was feeling through all the losses. I was obsessed.
And I also took to heart the message to “do the next right thing.” Sometimes that’s getting out of bed, going through the motions of life until you get to a point where you can look ahead not to the next thing, but to the thing after that, and the thing after that. When I’m stuck in a grief loop, this song comes to me.
And then I just do the next right thing. I get up and brush my teeth and my hair. Give my family hugs and kisses. Go to the animal shelter and pet cats. Eat. Rather than putting a massive, overwhelming list in front of myself, I try to do one thing at a time.
It’s been over five years since I saw that therapist. I don’t even remember his name or the name of the practice he worked for. But he changed my life by allowing me to process and be witnessed, free from expectations. And I think that’s what we all need and crave in our human experience: someone to know us, in our darkest moments, without judgement.
