*** WARNING EXPLICIT LANGUAGE ***
This past weekend was a rough one for me. It started on Thursday; before my bride came to pick me up for lunch, I sat down to watch the video above with Corey Taylor talking to a therapist. I thought to myself, “wow, this should be interesting.” Little did I know how intense his story would be and that it would drag out some memories of my own. I only made it a little more than halfway through the video when the memories came out; one that was hidden, suppressed, buried in the catacombs of my mind and the other was one that I’ve been trying to bury for the better part of 40 years.
I sat in my chair for a while and attempted to deal with this sudden flood of emotions that came along with these memories. I was hurt and I was pissed off! Why the fuck did these memories have to come up now! Don’t I have enough shit to deal with in my life? And such perfect timing too since I can’t see my therapist until January! GREAT! REALLY FUCKING GREAT!
Once I calmed down a bit, which was not much, but it was enough time for me to call the therapists office and ask if there was any way that I could see her for an emergency session. They said that they would give her the message but that if it was an emergency, I could come in right now and see someone else. I thanked them and hung up the phone. I thought to myself, “See someone else? SEE SOMEONE ELSE! I finally found a therapist that I trust and you want me to see someone else!” Thank God she called me within 10 minutes and said that she would see me right away if I could get there immediately.
Here is a bit of history with me and therapists. During the early years of my marriage, I didn’t think I needed to see one. I thought that I was fine and the rest of the world was jacked up. As the years passed though, I started to see what it was my bride was talking about and I reluctantly tried to get therapy. Most of the early therapists didn’t work though and I’m sure it was mostly due to me not cooperating or wanting the help. But in the later years when I desperately wanted and needed the help, I just kept striking out with the therapists that I saw. I was looking for someone who would listen, take my faith into consideration when providing feedback or solutions, hold me accountable, and one that had the knowledge to find out what was going on and come up with a concrete solution to help me move forward. That is the kind of therapist that I have now.
I told her about the first memory, the suppressed one. I sat there crying, feeling lost, alone and angry, kind of like I did as a child during that time. She told me to let it out, ride with it, allow it to come out. As I sat in my chair and described every detail to her, I could feel my nails clawing into the handles of the chair as I sat there shaking and crying in anger. With my right foot tapping at a rapid pace, I continued to tell my story and when I finally got to the end of it, a tsunami of tears rushed my eyes and I yelled into my hands which were cupped over my face. “WHY! Why did he have to do that!” It was a memory of an older boy from my childhood that everyone looked up to and thought he was just the grandest kid of all. That mother fucker. I won’t go into detail with you all, but I will say that it was a sexual assault of sorts.
My therapist continued to help me go through this as I sat there pounding my fist into the handle of the chair. She got me to the end of that memory and there was a bit of calm. As I let out a sigh of relief, the fear hit me again, because I knew that I was going to share my other memory with her in a minute or two and I knew that this last ride I just went through was going to be a walk in the park compared to the next memory I shared with her.
To be continued. Until next time, Buen Camino.