September 9, 2021

How a Therapist is Helping me Heal from Childhood Trauma.


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I felt like a football in the system that was fumbled again and again—that is until this new therapist picked me up last year and cradled me with her whole heart.

She’s beautiful.

I always feel as if I’m being hugged by her, despite never meeting in person.

Just seeing her smile each week on my computer screen is enough for me to keep moving forward.

Just hearing her voice helps me know I will be okay.

If you’ve read my posts on here or listened to my poems, you likely can tell that I have been hurting deeply from having been fumbled by mental health providers.

You can likely tell, too, that there is anger in me.

To be honest, I’m not sure what has hurt most—some of my childhood experiences or what happened to me in the system.

I wish I could say I understand what happened, but I don’t.

Even the last therapist, who fumbled me, said I did nothing wrong.

She said I was amazing.

She said we had a special heart connection.

It didn’t stop her, though, from dropping me suddenly and running.

I guess she realized I needed a mom, something she couldn’t provide.

I guess she realized it’s easier to pathologize me than to see that I was missing parents.

While she hurt me, I still miss her.

I miss the therapist before her, too.

That one lost her license, so she too, is gone in the abyss.

These people fumbled me and it hurt, but I still love them.

I probably always will.

They left me though alone in the mud with nobody to pick me up.

They had beautiful hearts, but they fumbled me.

Instead of being caught by someone else, they left me there for a long time alone in the mud.

I’m not sure I would have ever gotten out, but then a new therapist came along.

She picked me.

She tucked me under her arm and cradled me.

She believed that I mattered, and ever since last year, she’s been running with me down the field.

I’m a ways from the end zone, but it’s in sight.

I know when I get there that I will be okay.

I know this because just by cradling me the way that she has, I am beginning to cradle myself.

Just by holding on to me tightly and not dropping me this time, I’m beginning to see my true self.

It’s a magical place to be.

When I get to the end of the field, I will let her set me down because I will be ready.

I used to raise a shot glass to my Brazilian uncle and ask him, “Tio, você está comigo?” (Uncle, are you with me?)

He would clink his glass to mine and say, “Estou contigo, sempre.” (I’m with you always.)

And I know she will be too.


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