I have been seeing my therapist for years. Actually, it’s longer than I can really remember.
I have never received a bill. I am still waiting.
Our visits aren’t necessarily scheduled, but happen as needed. Maybe I am a special client at this point.
She knows everything about me; my strengths, my weaknesses, my sarcastic sense of humor, my frustrations, she knows it all.
She is available 24/7 and although I have never utilized the break of day service, I know she would answer my call without hesitation. And listen as long as I needed an ear.
She never judges, therefore I never hold back. She now probably knows too much.
Sometimes we sit in silence because she knows her presence is therapeutic enough and more comforting than speaking words.
Other times she makes me talk, spill my feelings, even when I try to stuff the fact that something is definitely wrong. I think I hide it well, but she senses my fakeness and asks all the right questions to peel back layers and expose the conversation I am trying to avoid. I ultimately get off my chest what it is she sensed. In the moment I might be irritated that she knows me so well, but I always feel better afterwards.
How does she do that? Must be experience.
She offers advice (only sometimes unsolicited) which is 99% effective, helpful and a golden nugget I stick in my back pocket for future reassurance. Who am I kidding… the other 1% is useful, too.
She’s on my side even when I am wrong.
She’s honest with me, makes me reflect, holds me accountable, and isn’t afraid to tell me when I am being irrational. Dang her. But she’s right.
She’s celebrated me at my highest.
She’s hugged me at my lowest.
She’s supported the in between and occasional manic phases of my life.
She’s laughed with me.
She’s cried with me.
She is my go-to and instant pick-me-up.
Her attentive ears have heard hours of confessions. Hours that undoubtedly equate to years.
But I have never received a bill.
And I never will.
Because that therapist is my mom.
