Celebrating Me

Tattoo on the inside of my arm.

I’ve always hated therapy.

For the six years I went weekly, I would always be exactly 8 minutes late. It didn’t seem to matter when I left my house, or how bad the traffic was, at eight minutes past the hour, I would blow into my therapists office, throw myself on his couch and mutter a brief and very robotic, “I’m sorry.”

As the sessions progressed, we would discuss so many different things, about how my desire for control extended to my own thoughts, and how that control was reducing my ability to feel.

Then, inevitably, as I concluded a story about something that happened over the previous week, he would ask the dreaded question, “How did that make you feel?”

“What the fuck do you care?” would run through my head, as the words “I don’t know,” came out my mouth.

I hated therapy.

Over the years, I started to see patterns to the stories I would tell. They often were about some accomplishment I should have been proud of, yet they always had a “but…” shoved in the middle.

During one session, he asked me for my definition of success. “I don’t know,” I replied, “but I hope I only utter the words ‘I am a success,’ moments before I die. After all, what else is there to do after you succeed?”

For long time, that is how I viewed success. As singularly achievable.

About two weeks ago, I decided to enact a “Big Reset.” I was going to give myself a gigantic do over.

I went to the doctor and had blood drawn seven times and urine twice. I had my house deep cleaned. I paid all my lingering bills. I even took all my animals to the vet (they deserve a do over, too.)

As a condition of The Big Reset, I also wanted to start giving myself credit. To try being ok with success as part of the process, much like failure is just points on the path. In order to do this, I started to set aside time Sunday nights to Celebrate Me.

Tonight, I walked into my backyard, which was nearly pitch black, and watched the stars. Even saw a shooting star. That was cool.

It was almost as silent as it was dark, and I slowly started to list things that I was proud of, and each time I got to the “but,” I stopped and started over.

As time passed, I noticed that I would just list something and nod to myself. And, slowly, started to smile after each item.

I also found myself asking myself how the item made me feel.

For the first time, I knew.