One Great Mystery

One Great Mystery

“One Great Mystery” is a new song off Lady Antebellum’s new album, 747. It’s lyrics has struck a cord with me as I don’t know what I did to make my therapist “fall for me”. Tonight I am reminded of the time, many years ago, that I first encountered her stubbornness. I was in another suicidal depression and I so wanted to get rid of her. I felt like therapy was worthless because I was feeling such things. I was so into my suicidal mind that I was planning for my death and yet I wanted to make sure she was taken cared of. So the journal that I subscribed to had an article in it on therapists survivor group. She wouldn’t even accept the paper I was handing her, she couldn’t accept my eminent death, much less going to see a therapist for her grief. She really didn’t want me to die. Yet with every fiber of my being, I wanted to. I just couldn’t face life. It hurt too much. I was tired, extremely tired of fighting the battle of depression month after month, day in and day out. It is exhausting just putting a smile on your face when all you want to do is hide from the world. Yet somehow, some way, she got me through that episode. It was difficult work. I was almost as stubborn as she is. I had to consistently keep in contact with her via text message about how I was doing. I would write her the most awful of text messages. But it was a way to let her know I was still around. Long as I sent her a text, it meant I was still fighting this battle I so wanted to end.

During one horrific suicidal place that lasted for about three long weeks, I asked her if she would tell me that she loved me. I needed to hear that if I was to survive. So toward the end of session she would say it, and it would always surprise me. I was taken aback that she complied. Who does that?? And I could tell in her voice she was sincere. I knew that I had to keep on doing this thing called living. It’s like the song by Garth Brooks, “learning to live again”. One of the lines is “learning to live again is killing me”. And it was. I can’t describe the battle of death vs life that was going inside of me. I so wanted to die but I had my goofy therapist wanting me to live. My “kids” that needed me for their various things. And my sisters who need a person to vent to. When I was working, it was always responsibility to my job, though I planned on killing myself at work because I hated the place. Even though they tried to promote they were for taking care of your pain, they really didn’t. If I didn’t have a caring PCP, I would be screwed. I know that I would have ended my life years ago had my PCP turn me down for opioid therapy.

My therapist knew this. She and my psychiatrist know that my physical pain drives my suicidal tendencies to the limit. And when I don’t have a break, I get into a very depressive state that is hard to get out. Luckily, with my last hospitalization I was put on an antidepressant. If I wasn’t on it, I doubt it would have lifted my depression and suicidal thoughts.

But my therapist is great, as much as I call her a bozo and a PITA (pain in the ass). I know I wouldn’t be here without her persistent nature.