The Seven Words that Made Me Quit Therapy

It was late April and I’d been seeing my therapist once a week for about six months. At this point, I was 8 months post-apocalypse (in other words, I’d gone no contact from a toxic, narcissistic man after discovering the entire two years we’d spent together were a complete lie) and I was still struggling.

My body went through the motions each day of getting up, taking my kids to school, going to work, and all the other responsibilities that I had. But my mind was caught in a cycle of constant rumination.

I couldn’t stop going over every detail of the relationship. I couldn’t stop punishing myself for all the red flags I missed. I couldn’t stop crying. Anytime eyes were not on me, tears were streaming down my face.

I was still completely shattered.

My therapist was a wonderful older lady. She was kind and thoughtful. I liked her methodical approach and I was happy to have a safe place to fall apart each week for the hour I spent sobbing in her office.

However, as therapy progressed, I started to realize that she really didn’t have a strong grasp on the aftermath of narcissistic abuse. She didn’t quite understand how turned inside out my thought patterns were as a result of the emotional manipulation or how I was still very careful with my words so as not to upset him should he ever learn I said them.

She also let me spend way too much time worrying about him instead of focusing on my own healing.

On the last day that I saw her, I told her about a very vivid dream I’d had the night before. In the dream, he and I were married. We had a little boy.

We were happy.

Those wonderful moments we’d had at the beginning of our relationship hadn’t faded into toxicity. He wasn’t a liar. We had a happy life.

When I woke up, reality hit me like a freight train and I felt a suffocating mix of emotions. It was like learning the truth all over again. I felt sad, ashamed, and crushed because I still loved a man who never really existed. And I felt like something was terribly wrong with me for missing a man who’d hurt me so deeply.

I asked her why it still hurt so much.

In retrospect, I want to give my therapist the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps when she responded with this question she meant to phrase it a different way. Maybe she missed a few key words with her delivery. But no matter what, the words she did say caused a complete shutdown of my system and I never went back to see her again.

She said, “Why can’t you just get over it?”

I remember looking up at her and feeling my head swim with confusion. What? Should I be over it by now? Am I doing something wrong? Am I a failure at therapy, too?

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I’ve since had a lot of time to think about the concept of ‘getting over it.’ It’s an idealism that seems to be drilled into our heads by society as if we are only allotted a specific amount of time to feel emotion about an event, and then we are expected to just act like that event never happened. Get over it. Move on.

The allotted amount of time to grieve has passed. Suck it up, kid.

But here’s the thing — I’m never going to get over it. What happened is now a part of me.

I do not think we should expect each other to ‘get over it,’ whatever it may be, because the past cannot be undone.

When we lose something we love, it’s like a cut on our skin. Some losses are superficial and heal more quickly, while others are deep gaping wounds that heal slowly, and can bleed easily with the slightest touch.

But even when we heal, the scars remain. We can see them on our skin. We can feel them with our hands. Those moments forever become a part of us and we simply learn to live with them over time.

Instead of pushing people to get over the losses in their lives, maybe we should all learn to be better listeners and assure those around us that they are allowed to feel their feelings.

It’s okay to heal at your own pace.

It’s okay if it’s messy.

It’s okay to not be okay.

And no, you don’t ever have to get over it.