This week I was discussing a personal matter with my therapist. One I’ve managed to stuff inside or push aside for years. I’ve resigned to the fact that I’ll never overcome it and it’s just life. However, this time she gave a name to it. A label. Another label. This sent my brain into full-speed overload. Cartwheels and flips.
On one hand, it was a relief. It made such sense. So, maybe I’m not crazy or exaggerating or thinking things up in my head. AND, that must mean that I’m not the only one with the same messed up crap. There are actually people out there dealing with the same stuff. I found tons of information on the internet regarding people “just like me”. Although it often feels quite lonely, it’s a minor relief to know I’m actually not alone.
On the other hand, it sucks. Just what I’ve always wanted – another label. (Insert eye roll.) Another way that I’m defective. Another “thing” that will make no sense to anyone who isn’t dealing with it themselves. Another topic for therapy that I’m not sure can be resolved. Another something to add to my list of messed up shit.
After digesting this new label for a bit, I found myself making excuses. Excuses for past behavior and new excuses for future behaviors. “Well, if I’m this way then I can act accordingly. I mean, if you cat beat ‘em, join ‘em, right? From now on, this will be my new excuse for avoiding actions or partaking in them, depending on how I feel – and what benefits me most. Not exactly.
I’m still not sure how I feel about this new label. I don’t think it’s something I can fix. It’s who I am. And it sucks. While it is so tempting, the worst thing I can do is make another excuse. Another excuse to drink or withdraw or isolate or react. The consequences aren’t worth it. Today I’m telling myself that I have the labels but they don’t have me. I mean, they’re just words. I’m so much more than a few (sucky) labels. I’m a beautiful mess – and that’s okay.