A Wounded Healer

There's a subtle yet powerful difference between seeing a doctor who, without so much as a second glance, writes you a prescription, and the one who actually sits down and empathizes with you (and who may or may not then offer you the same prescription). 

I saw a total of three counselors and two different psychiatrists in my initial journey to overcome emetophobia before landing (by complete happenstance) on the site of my current counselor/clinician. At first, I was wary of contacting her.  Slightly jaded, more than a little bitter, and hesitant to pay another several hundred dollars with potentially marginal results to show for it.  

But then I read her story.  And it was different.   

Her words painted a picture of someone who had been exactly where I was right at that very moment.  Someone else who had once- perhaps hundreds of times- thought that this was as good as it was gonna get.   Living life on the sidelines.  Front row in the cheering section but never dancing down the court.  I wondered if maybe marginal results were all I could ever expect and hope for.  Maybe I should settle and be content.

But this wasn't her narrative.  I dove headfirst into her blog that night and ravenously devoured her articles with a renowned sense of hope.  It was the first time in years that I could see myself on the other side of this thing.   It's now been 16 months, and to say that she has done what no one else could have done for me is an understatement.  Yes, she's a registered clinical counselor.  Yes, she specializes in CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy).  Yes, she's done years of research and works with clients and therapists all over the world.  But in my personal opinion, none of that mattered nearly as much to me as the fact that she had recovered from the same phobia I was currently living with.

She knew the fear I spoke of because she had lived with it for twenty years.  She not only had survived it, but beat it.   She is a wife and a mother.  She "got it" in a way that my other therapists couldn't.  As sympathetic and tactful as they tried to be, they just couldn't put themselves in my shoes.  And for so long, that's all I really needed.  Meds are a wonderful tool to get you from point A to point B with less damage than if you hadn't had them, but I can honestly say that there was no amount of Xanax in the world that could've worked this out in my soul.   

She and I meet once a month now- mostly as a touch-point, and it seems we spend a good portion of it talking about things that don't necessarily relate directly to the phobia.  After our session this evening, I found myself a bit tearful as I talked with Jake about our session.  Never has it been so apparent to me the need for these "wounded healers."  People who have "been there, done that."  Those who are willing to expose their own scars- no matter how deep- for the sake of helping to heal someone else's.  And it was tonight, that perhaps I realized for the first time, how fortunate I am to be surrounded by so many of these types.

My husband.

My close friends.

My women's group.

My online mama friends.

They have offered out-stretched hands to me time and time again, not only reassuring me that I wasn't alone, but in doing so, making themselves vulnerable as well.  Have you ever held out your hand to someone and had it rejected?  It stings.  It's embarrassing.  It makes you a little more reluctant to offer it a second time.  I am in no way deserving of second chances.  But I've been offered them, nonetheless.  Hell, I've been offered 962 chances.  (At least).  There's something almost transformative though, about hearing someone say, "I know exactly how you feel," or "I went through the same ordeal."

Until you've been through a divorce, you don't know the sting of that separation.

Until you've been through a marriage that's seen the devastation of a porn addiction, you don't know the demons that are lurking there.

Until you've struggled with infertility, you don't know the heartache.

That doesn't mean you can't still offer a shoulder to cry on.  (I've always believed that shoulders are pretty overrated, with the exception of this one role). ;-)  What I think it does mean, is that the dark days we have endured (or will endure)- when we find ourselves bruised, beaten and bewildered- are always for a reason.  That reason may not become apparent to us for another ten years, so maybe this requires us to trust in a bigger picture.   If you think about it, our world is chock-full of wounded people.  Pain exempts no one.  And when it comes down to it, there are really only two options: be jaded, or be empathetic.

My scars are still a bit tender.  And they absolutely, positively cost me something.  But tonight, I was reminded that they might, in fact, be my best attributes after all.