A roommate of mine when I was stationed in South Carolina took me to a driving range with him on one of our weekends off, and that was a complete bust.
Not only was it my first time at a driving range, there were no left-handed clubs to rent. So learning, or attempting to learn, how to drive was compounded with weak-side stance.
But lesbihonest here, I’m not here to talk about golf. The only golf I have any actual experience with is mini golf and I’m not very good at that either.
This T Time refers to something that many people find as unmentionable as divorce. It’s commonly regarded as [dramatic pause] taboo.
No, “taboo” is not the T-word in question. I’d give it a better intro than that.
Go ahead, think of someone you thought of as crazy. Or psycho. Or neurotic, socially inept, emotionally unavailable, or just plain mean. Now think of all the other things you may have called someone in a blow out fight. Or all the things they’ve called you. I’ve been called all those I just mentioned. And a few others: scared, afraid, a coward, a runner, weak, the terms of endearment don’t stop there.
And I’ll admit I have been (or maybe still are) a few of them. But it’s not being those things that have been thorns in my relationships. It’s not doing anything about them. In recognizing that, one of my big changes in this new stage of my life involves some T Time.
In different context, the very mention of “therapy” makes people cringe. Couch time. Seeing a shrink. Pillow punching. Hannibal Lecter. (Okay, maybe not so much the last one.) But you know exactly what I mean.
“I don’t need therapy.”
“I don’t need to ‘talk’ to anyone.”
“What could someone who doesn’t anything about me possibly tell me?”
“Therapy? I’m not crazy. Therapy for insane asylum residents.”
But here, by nature of you reading my divorce blog, it isn’t as shocking to mention therapy.
And I plan on going back.
You read that right, I said “I plan on going back” (50 points if you read that in a Katy Perry Dark Horse voice) which implies I have been before. I did once, literally only one session, almost ten years ago, back when I separated from the military and moved home to the opposite coast after my fiancee and I parted ways. (If that wasn’t a trailer for about six other posts, I don’t know what is.)
Being a newly-separated veteran, I opted for the VA Mental Health Clinic available to me locally, and I was assigned an intern for my consultation. Thirty minutes into my hour-long session, I had made the decision to leap over the river of awkwardly feeling me out and list out what I wanted help with and where I believe they tie back to. Much of this was (not surprisingly) linked to parents, siblings, early love relationships, sexual experiences, and culture shock from going into the military at a young age. At this point, then intern was very blunt and told me that I had just shared everything they would have tried to dredge from me talking about my feelings and that that was as much as they could help me.
So ends my one (or technically, half) session of therapy I went to “back in the day.”
And so I’m seeking it out again, ten years later. With ten years of break ups, job interviews, blow out arguments, shots, successes, cheers, jeers, angry emails, video chats, and well, life.
Therapy comes in many forms, though. This blog, if you can’t tell, is a form of therapy for me. For years I’ve felt that the simple act of telling a story is therapeutic for the storyteller, and in this mindset, I draw on my theater background.
In a Fundamentals of Directing course at my community college, my professor had shared (as every other directing teacher I had) that everything I need to tell the playwright’s story effectively is in the script. The words selected by the author were carefully selected to share everything intended. Similarly with my writing and how I speak. Every word choice I make is biased, skewed, and crafted on all of my experience. Through this I can identify what is important to me, what I truly want, and how I should take action.
Words are powerful weapons, and I do strongly believe that they are the most accessible form of insight into our own lives.
Everything is in our scripts that we write everyday.