You With Me?

"No one really cares. I'm not special. I'm not brave"

She just stared at me and I stared back at her, half hoping she'll dismiss me from the room or change the subject. My therapist looked at me for what seemed like forever and I said nothing after that. We both sat quietly in silence.

I was 18 when I entered therapy and hit my mental breaking point. To say I was exhausted is an understatement. I was physically and mentally depleted. I was defeated. I had finally lost myself. I think she knew because every week for an hour, she would see me retreat and dismiss every little thing a human found important in life. I could give a fuck. I could care less that I weighed nothing more than a 7th grader, my head of hair fell out in clumps, or that I could barely get up from bed. To me, I was nothing. But to her, I was more than the pile of rotting flesh that I often l felt. So much that she finally broke the silence.

"I think you're brave. You're one of the bravest people I think I met and I am very lucky for that. And I care a lot about you and I love you. Not because I pity you but because I want you to understand your worth. I want you to see yourself the way I see you every week. Cause you try so hard and I can see that somewhere deep inside you still care about yourself and the world. You decided to come here all by yourself. No one is forcing you - by law or guardian. You are here. And decide to come every week even when shit gets hard so please remember when I tell you this. You matter so much. You with me?"

So in times of despair much like what I've been facing the last few weeks, I think about her. Not so much her words but this very specific moment in which she presented me with myself. A rare moment in my life where I am able to look beyond sorrow and give myself the love I sought from others. The moment where I can stop grieving and self hating and let myself be vulnerable. Because the struggle lies more than just admitting your feelings out loud but remembering to give ourselves a break when shit doesn't go our way. I forget that I am loved and cared for constantly and this is the consequence of learning to be emotionally independent at a young age. I forget that people actually care more than I think and my absence much like my words have a profound effect. I'm human and I am more wrong than I am right. And despite my anxiety and depression, I am still Lisa Lei. I am still trying and that is enough. Everything is enough, always.