Therapy intake sessions can get pretty rough for me. I've got this defense mechanism where I laugh and smile about things that hurt too much to dwell on.
There are some things that no amount of tears can wash away, so I burst out in laughter to prevent myself from crying in front of other people. Today, I giggled about the time I got halfway through a suicide attempt and my ears stopped working and I got so scared about the finality of what I was about to do that I reconsidered what I was doing. I chuckled about the time I was shocked and grieving the death of my friend but decided to go skiing and sprained my ankle. I grinned as I talked about the time I ordered something on Amazon to take my own life but then saw a picture of my family and broke down. When I'm describing these things, the words coming out of my mouth feel foreign, almost like I'm narrating someone else's story as opposed to talking about my past.
I often tell myself that things aren't a big deal when they are. Like the times I had an urge to hurt myself but never really believed it was real until there were bruises on my body. Sometimes, things affect me more than I realize, like walking down the air-conditioned white hallways of my old dorm building, the same halls I would pace up and down when I was debating whether my life was worth living. Stepping into the study nook I spent late nights, unable to sleep, reading a book called "Reasons to Stay Alive." There are things on this campus that I am intentionally avoiding, like the rooftop where I spent sleepless nights, feet dangling at the ledge, listening to sad music, gazing at the stars, and wondering what it would mean to disappear.
I have really mixed feelings about this campus. The square reminds me of freshman spring, when my friends and I walked down the streets tipsy, hollering the lyrics to Vienna by Billy Joel. The steps of the library remind me of a romantic first kiss I had with my freshman crush. The bridge reminds me of the COVID get-togethers my friends and I had outdoors my sophomore year.
I'm sitting in a cafe, unable to focus on my readings, and writing to try to make sense of what exactly it is I'm feeling. This week has been difficult and long but it also makes me hopeful. In 250 days, I will finally be a college graduate. 35 weeks and 5 days. I can do this. There will be tears and there will be pain, and it might do me some good to let myself cry as opposed to plastering a fake smile to get through everything. I'm counting down to commencement, taking it one class at a time, one day at a time, one. week at a time.
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