The last post, the one where I laid it all out there for the world to see, well, it prompted an emotional purge.
It was all I could do to get through the evening rituals of dinner, a family walk, and bedtime. Owen knew something was going on with me, and when he asked if everything was OK, I met his gaze for a brief second, holding down a torrent of tears, and replied, “Not really”.
Dinnertime conversation was full of grown-up code and knowing glances in between the usual banter of the big kids’ stories from their day and the toddler’s screeches and mayhem.
It is in my nature to just keep going, tuck my head down and keep charging forward.
No rest for the weary, as they say.
The evening went smoothly (sans wine or liquor) and by 8:30 p.m., Owen and I were sitting side by side on the couch.
“So…” was all the prompt I needed from him.
I took a deep breathe, and when I opened my mouth the words started tumbling out. Bit by bit, much faster than expected, my truth bubbled up.
Words like fear, pain, abandonment, and anger were bursting through my stories – my soul’s attempt to purge all the junk it had collected through the years.
Motherhood is not the source of my anxiety, it is just a catalyst.
The source goes much farther back, much deeper.
Owen is my rock, my shoulder to cry on; he is always there to listen. And for that I am extremely grateful, but I plan on seeking outside help with this. Afterall, he is my husband, not my therapist.
I grew up in a house that thought “therapy” was a four-letter word. So this is a big deal for me – realizing that there are things in this life that are much bigger than one person, one couple, one family can handle.
I am finally ready to ask for help.
And, believe it or not, I feel stronger already.