Brooklyn Blogette

My therapist is breaking up with me.

I mean, I guess it's not really a break up. It's a parting of ways.

My new job is in Brooklyn, not near his office.
He thinks I am in a good place.
He keeps pointing out all the skills I have developed over the last 2.5 years.
He says I can call if I need to have an emergency session...

I never thought I would be someone who ever went to therapy. Although I sometimes struggled with feeling bad and self image issues, I just told myself to "buck up" and reminded myself that other people had it much worse. Deep down, I felt like, if I couldn't handle it by myself, something was wrong with me.

I have always had trouble asking for help.

When I was three, my mom, my brother and I would walk to the P&C for groceries and then walk home. I was insistent that I carry the gallon of milk. Mind you, I weighed 25 pounds. A gallon of milk was a monstrous task for 3 year old me. I refused help. Every 4 steps, I had to stop and take a break. But, I would carry that mother-fing milk home.

My Mom loves to tell this story. It shows my independent, self-reliant side. It also reveals that I was trying to prove I was valuable. Maybe I was trying to convince myself that I could take care of myself if I needed to.


In second grade, I would forget my lunch money all the time. I would NEVER ask the teacher for money. NEVER. Even when she noticed I had no lunch and offered, I refused to take it. I felt ashamed to even consider it. I forgot my money, I would deal with the consequences.

I always felt that I should be able to handle my shit on my own.

Until I was the driver in a car accident that could have killed my niece and my sister in law. We flipped four times on the highway. The baby was in a car seat and my Sister in law was unbuckled. Every moment of the accident was in slow motion and my brain was racing 100 miles an hour-I had killed us, I had ruined my brother's life, I should never have been driving; i could hear the glass breaking, smell the dirt rolling into the car, felt the hot coffee flipping into my face in zero gravity. I watched Tina bounce up and down and could not help her.

We were fine. The baby was untouched. TIna hurt her neck. My hand was cut open. People on the highway pulled over and helped us out of the upside down car. We were fine.

But I had nightmares. And flashbacks. And crying jags. Being in a car was torturous. I was terrified the baby had some internal injury we didn't know about.

At the same time, my brothers family was coming apart at the seams-and I felt that was my fault too.

I was a failure. a failure because I wrecked the car. a failure because I couldn't help my brother. a failure because I couldn't get past my own fears of being in a car. a failure for letting the nightmares affect me.

I went to therapy.
I went to a sleep clinic.

I learned how to detach emotionally from things I could not control. I learned to give myself credit for all that I've accomplished. I learned how to put my energy into things I valued that would give me energy back.

In learning how to deal with the aftermath of the accident, I also learned that I was an amazing talented teacher and began to value my talents more. Because I knew how valuable I was, I sold myself better. Cool job opportunities came my way. I gained more confidence.

In learning to deal with the aftermath of the accident, my relationships with my family improved. I learned that my value was not tied up in their success or failure. I learned that I could help them without compromising my own life.

Every week, I go in to therapy and I de-brief. What I did right, what I had questions about, what I could have done better.

I know when to ask for help. I know that it's okay.
I know that people love me-and are willing to help me.
I know how to respond to people who are hurting me.
I know how to ask for what I want.

So, as of Sept. 3. I am no longer a patient. I am just Camille. On my own. Independent.

But I am still a little scared.
And I can admit that because I was in therapy.