Flimsiness, Litmus Tests, & Zoom Therapy

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If you asked me to tell you my best traits, I soon heard myself explain while staring at my fixed, apologetic smile in my Zoom rectangle, I wouldn’t have an answer.

I returned to therapy in the fall of my junior year, and the next office I became acquainted with was never warmed by orange lighting and only had a tissue box if I brought one myself and surreptitiously placed it out of sight. I sat at my too-small desk, a random island angled unnaturally in my room to avoid the vulnerability of anyone peering into my space, and prayed that I didn’t look too nervous. 

But despite my initial doubts in the efficacy of therapy, my new therapist was as kind and gentle as I had hoped, and being in this Zoom room every other week allowed me to start brainstorming responses to questions I was growing ready to answer. I began to understand the situations and emotions that kept bringing me back to ugly-crying in my dorm room during freshman year, how easily an infinite list of daily missteps mutates into something too heavy to carry. 

The silences weren’t so daunting this time around. Surely we could have done more thinking in a physical office without my brother gaming furiously in the next room and walking into mine mid-session, only to exclaim Vape Nation! at the sight of my billowing humidifier. Surely my untimely outburst of tears would have been less awkward if I hadn’t had to consider whether I should mute my mic, my shaky Internet likely interrupting my sobs along the way. 

Even so, and despite the inevitable periods of stagnancy that come with trying to make progress, I began to unravel those feelings I had in my dorm room, that immense disappointment and desire to leave myself behind. It was always more than not feeling confident in my French accent. It was more than not getting into my dream universities and confiding to my parents during the car ride home every other weekend that I still hadn’t changed my life plan to something more lucrative or stable. 

It became clear that I needed to learn how to unravel my link between “success,” validation, and self-esteem, and while this is easier said than done, as this association has been years in the making, I wish I could tell my worried-as-hell high school self and tired-as-hell early college self that they need to stop treating life like a race and a competition, and everything they’ve done has been enough. 

Some time in January, I jokingly texted a close friend, I’m getting kicked out of therapy. 

Oh, he had responded, followed by a pregnant pause. For good behavior?

My therapist and I had simply reached the end of our time together, the twelve session annual maximum offered by my university. But we agreed that we were at the beginning of a new “season,” in her words, where things were looking up again. 

Before we parted ways, she encouraged me to reflect on the work we had done. Feel free to be creative, she had said. Creativity escaped me that week, however, and I showed up to my last appointment with a list of rudimentary statements attempting to document my old and new ways of thinking and prove I had made some sort of progress. Other people perceive me as weak and less competent, I had written of my initial mindset. I’m worried that my successes are a result of luck. 

These became: My community uplifts me. I am excited to see what comes next, even if I am still worried about the future. I am proud of the progress I have made so far. I am letting go. 

For my hopes of my future mindset, I wrote: I believe I will accomplish my goals. I believe I have worth outside of my work. I believe I am a good friend. I understand that I deserve to feel loved and important. 

Sorry, I remember saying, feeling sheepish about the barebone, kindergarten-esque list I shared on my screen. I didn’t end up making something pretty out of it.

She laughed and said that perhaps that was a sign of growth, and as we said our goodbyes, between my plethora of thank-yous, I did everything I could to not cry with bittersweet gratitude. 

— p. 2/3