Why I go to Therapy (and you should too)

-Emma Forrest Your Voice in my Head (which is, incidentally, a brilliant memoir about therapy)

I've been at least moderately messed up for a good chunk of my adult life. More disastrous than some, less of a train wreck than others. Sometimes just an endearing little f*ck-up. Sometimes an outwardly together, closeted basket-case. Sometimes in full-on breakdown to the point that my friend, J affectionately calls me, "Roadkill".

 

 

"Erin, people escape themselves through the over-indulgence in drugs, alcohol, television, food, books, sex, work, exercise...what's your addiction?" -My First Therapist

-Me (in response)
"Do I have to pick just one?"

 

I've been in and out of therapy various times for various reasons in various degrees of f*ck-up-edness so I'm in a perfect position to recommend it to you.

 

Gentle Reader. You do not need therapy because you are some kind of broken. YOU ARE A DIVINE PIECE OF LIFE'S GRANDEST HOPES FOR ITSELF. Chances are, you've forgotten this tidbit. I forgot it a few times and therein lies the trouble.

 

"Erin, do you know what you're REALLY addicted to?" -My Second Therapist

-Me (in response)
"uh....."

"drama." - My Second Therapist (in response to my slack-jawed response)

-Me

"Ouch...yeah..."

Hi, my name is Erin and I'm a drama-holic

 

 

My ego really used to run the whole show. It's a clever little ego.

 

 

 

Sometimes I forgot about Real Love altogether and focused every ounce of my energy on what A Course in Miracles calls  the "special relationship". Essentially the special relationship is when my ego gets together with another ego and we have this big, dramatic ego dance. If you are me, you eventually run straight for the hills and straight into another even specialer relationship.

 

Therapy has brought me closer to my real self. It has given me a dialogue to have with myself and my loved ones which gets me closer to what ACIM calls a "Holy Relationship" which means that rather than our egos doing the whiny poopy baby dance, our Spirits get to hang out for the sole purpose of getting us closer who we truly are.

 

It's a far preferable option. 

 

 (not even trying to make crazy eyes...)

Some Things I love About Therapy.

(And I think you will too)

 

1. It is intense self-care

 

We've very nearly gotten to the point where we can justify carving out time to care for our bodies without apologising for it. Doesn't it stand to reason that our minds and hearts deserve just as much TLC? There's still a stigma attached, but let's just ditch that for good. It's not serving anybody to fake happy.

 

2. It's an investment

 

Think of it this way: in therapy, you're spending your money on an hour's worth of conversation about anything that's stuck in your craw with someone who has no agenda other than your successful journey into yourself.

 

**Yes, I'm sure there are some less than reputable people in this profession. I've noticed, however that when I put the sincere intention out there to find a trustworthy guide, one always shows up.**

 

3. It's probably covered

 

I'll bet that if you have extended benefits through work (in BC) that you have some coverage available for counselling.

 

If not, look into it at your University, community mental health organisation, religious organisation or speak with your physician. There's coverage available for this stuff, people! Lets use it!

 

4. Insight

 

"Erin, you put other people's feelings ahead of your own"

Do you do this too? It's generally thought of as a positive, generous way to show up in the world, right? Except if, like me, it means that you stay in a situation looooooong after it's stopped serving you to the point of self-destruction.

 

Therapists point this stuff out.  (So does Nina Simone)

 

 

 

Maybe this isn't your particular hang-up. Maybe your hang-up is something completely different. It probably is. But paying someone to spell it out for you is mightily helpful when it comes to healing those bastard hang-ups.

 

*Note: I am also an enthusiastic over-reactor

 

 

I had undiagnosed depressive episodes several times in my life, until my therapist told me:

 

-You're not sleeping

-You can't concentrate (I hadn't read a novel in SIX MONTHS)

-You're not eating

-You get every single cold bug that floats around on the breeze?

 

These weren't questions. He was straight up telling me.

 

It was such a relief. As my friend, J says, "You can't hit what you can't see." I couldn't see it until I talked to someone who knew the score.

 

5. You. Are. Whole.

 

Did I mention that already? It bears repeating. Sometimes we need to be reminded by someone who has made his/her life's work to care.

 

If you're anything like me (and I'm going to go ahead and assume that you are to some degree since you're reading my blog) you're on a lifelong quest into the heart of yourself. How you get there is up to you.  As Gandhi said, "Truth is one, paths are many". It can be a tough slog. Uphill, both ways, barefoot in the snow. If you're on this trek, guaranteed you will occasionally put barriers in your own way. So why not use every, single resource at your disposal in order to fumble your way toward grace?

 

Perhaps you're wondering, "Why is she telling the world all about her foibles?"

I really just want you to feel less alone. If we're all authentic with one another about our bruises, we can at the very least bear witness to one another's struggles and realize that we're all in it together.

”I offer you peace. I offer you love. I offer you friendship. I see your beauty. I hear your need. I feel your feelings. My wisdom flows from the Highest Source. I salute that Source in you. Let us work together for unity and love.” ~ Gandhi

 

Got your back,

 

-Er

 



Irish Blessings

May you have warm words on a cold evening. 
a full moon on a dark night,
and the road downhill all the way to your door.
-Irish Blessing

I just touched down after the trip of a lifetime...aaand I have no idea what to say about it.
















You'd think that a life-changing experience such as this would net me a ton of raw material, but in truth, the raw material is so raw that I can't even pin down a story.

I've been blessed to travel a lot and (somewhat) disciplined enough to write about most of it. A standard travel diary is what I've often used to record my wanderings in the past.

"And then we went here"

"And then we ate this."

In recent years, I've been so bold as to venture into, "After we did this, I felt that."

I've practiced yoga in four countries in two years and written inspired lesson plans and boring, self-involved journal entries.

Truthfully, the most interesting ways in which I've described my travels is via Facebook statuses and emails to my friend, B.

So how does this modern BFA write this trip and how it changed me? Dear God, not with poetry...

I tell the Internet.

Dear Dad,

There may be inaccuracies in my telling of this tale. Forgive me. I am as much a storyteller as you are a scientist.

Love, Er

This trip began as a tiny seed, three years ago.  My dad (an historian and full-on genealogy buff for my entire memory) was torn as to whether or not to renew his ancestry.ca membership when he received an email from E, "I think you belong to us"

We do. We didn't just find new relatives. We found new family. In Ireland. A whole bunch of them. And they're awesome.

This story begins in 1906 when a young Irishman fell in love with a young woman from a lower class. They leave Ireland, marrying on the ship that carried them to Canada. And back and back and back. I have ancestors and they're as immediate as anything.

See? It's a HUGE story.

I expressed to my dear friend/brilliant yoga student, R that I'd been experiencing writers' block around this post. She said wisely, "don't try to write the whole thing. Let it sink in and then write the moments."

So...

My Irish Trip

Part One

Ireland is really pretty and green. I had fun. We saw a lot of castles and drank some Guinness. 

The end.

Okay. Now for real.

Dublin at 5am when the streets are still dirty and we walk down the river Liffey and past a pile of human feces on the boardwalk. It is covered politely with a restaurant napkin. My mother wonders what we got ourselves into. We have three breakfasts and then sleep for four hours.

Live music in EVERY pub. Every night of the week. The kind of bands we pay a lot of money to see in Canada when the opportunity presents itself. My throat is raw from singing along.

Hospitality so immaculate that it begins with a recommendation to visit the Dublin Zoo from the gentleman at Irish customs who stamps our passports (we do. It's the best zoo I've ever seen). The hospitality doesn't end until our cousin drops us off at the bus depot in Wexford two weeks later (again at 5am). In between, we are inundated with family love. They chauffeur us, tour us, feed us and hug us the entire time.

Sierra's favourite memory, "The clothesline." I admit it's one of mine too.

The death-defying country roads. Fiery death around every bend. Don't even ask about the fruit stands. Wexford strawberries are worth risking your life for, but risk it you shall.

Family. Loads of family. Kids with adorable accents. Sierra's first sleepover with her three new cousins/bffs. "I will be brave, Mom. I am not ashamed"
(Yeah. That's a direct quote. I'm in trouble).

Time. On vacation with my daughter, I am the kind of mother I always mean to be the rest of the time.



















Bonding with my Canadian family as well as the new Irish one. Time shared between Sierra and her uncle, her grandma, her papa. Loud time, quiet time. Time to drink coffee (the best coffee) while looking out over Waterford Harbour. Precious, precious time.



There were castles and abbeys. They took our breath away. More than once we went on private tours of these places because not only does our Irish family know EVERYBODY but they were also so generous in sharing their time and passion for history.

There was a kayak trip for which there is no photographic evidence because Jonathan dropped the camera in the water (sorry, Jonathan. Last time).

As is customary in my family, there are many inside jokes that no one else will laugh at but have to be included nonetheless. I'll refrain from elaborating because I've promised myself I'll avoid self-indulgent,boring travel-diary prose.

You're a Ballyhack

What does it mean to discover that you've got a whole second home, far away across the sea? To discover heritage you didn't know you had and experience it to such a first-hand degree that it becomes part of your marrow? To absorb the suffering and pride and resilience and humour of a culture that's simultaneously yours' and not? To leave home to go home?

(I'm not entirely sure. It hasn't fully sunk in yet.)

But I'm pretty it means that I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

I ate a lobster roll at Hook Lighthouse that all other lobster rolls will fail to live up to, got lost in a yew-maze with my cousin, traveled 36 hours with my brother (senses of humour intact) and was many times moved to tears by the embrace of a family brought back together after over a hundred years by new technology and passionate persistence.

I dearly hope we can one day return the hospitality of our Irish loved ones and show them what Canada's been up to over the last century.

Until that day, I'll keep the kettle on,

Er

Ode to girl friends

If all my friends were to jump off a bridge, I wouldn't jump with them, I'd be at the bottom to catch them

- Unknown

I am ALL about my best girlfriends. Not just today, but always. Not to be totally dramatic (never!) but I would die without them.

They have picked me up (some of them multiple times), seen me through, seen through me and loved me when the best I could muster for myself was mild disdain.

This post is a love letter to my lady friends, the world over.

You know the ones. The ones with whom you can pick back up after the greatest distance and longest time and laugh like twelve year olds. The ones who will take your call in the middle of the night when you are in distress (love you, L).

They help you move (literally and figuratively), drive you to the airport and style your hair.

Don't get me wrong. I count my fiance, dad and bro among my tightest and bestest friends. But there are some convos you can only have with your nearest and dearest gf's.

J (via text): I may never eat gluten again. Feel free to stage an intervention if I do.

Me: I know! Isn't your poop so much better?! My gluten- free poop is so much nicer!

J (after a short pause): That is a lot of personal information. Your secret is safe with me.

***NOTE: bloggers blog their secrets***

Me: BFF's talk about their poop.

J: Yeah. We do.

One of my BFF's, M recently drove six hours to bring me Cinnzeo and spend less than a day with me for my birthday. Slimy, peely leper-looking face masks, Indian food and so many more laughs than I can count and then she drove six hours home. Who does that?!

My friends do. Dear God, I love them.

They have baked birthday cakes for me, convinced me to stop wearing mascara on my bottom lashes, given me funny nicknames (Lefty comes from A after I called to complain of having forgotten to put deodorant on my left armpit) and been so very patient and encouraging as I stumbled and fumbled my way through life.

They come with kind menfolk who have been my Knights in Shining Armour while I waited for my own to arrive.

They live in Victoria, Vancouver, Nicaragua, the West Kootenays and just down the street. We have known each other all our lives or just a few months. It doesn't matter. They are so dear to me.

Our lives are busy and sometimes the best we can manage is a text message...

(Actual text message received from my cousin)

And this is my love letter to them.

I love you. Thank you for including me and my kiddo even though we threw off your table by being single. Thank you for sending flowers and prayers and holding my hand when I fell apart. You are warrior queens, every single one of you and my life is richer and infinitely more fabulous for having known you.

You bless me with your friendship and talk of bowel movements.

You know who you are.


With love and friendship,

Er