the defiance of a sad girl…

…often looks like anger.

I’ve done talk therapy for years. There have been attempts to do different forms of therapy, but health insurance, financial capabilities, mental health professional availability, and other shit that required prioritization kept getting in the way. Still, I’m a persistent gal when it comes to what I know I need and want. The phrase “where there’s a will, there’s a way” should always automatically pop up with my face next to it.

I’ve put a pause on my bi-weekly talk therapy sessions and am now doing weekly EMDR sessions. Despite my financial situation not changing much, I have the capacity to change my budget to support my mental health. This is a very adult decision, considering all the other things my weekly therapy funds COULD be going to… things that are a lot more enjoyable than unpacking my ridiculous as fuck childhood and how it’s impacting my ridiculous ass adulthood.

Speaking of this being less enjoyable, EMDR feels unsafe as all hell…not because there’s something wrong with it…my nervous system is just upset that I’m bringing up old shit. My entire body is angry while I do this, BUT the longer I sit with my FEELINGS, my body shifts away from the mask of anger and damn near sinks into sadness. It isn’t that I didn’t know already, but I really am just a sad-ass girl stuck in this angry, old-ass, middle-aged woman body. Speaking of anger, for years I’ve maintained the truth that my favorite colors are red and green. My last session revealed that red isn’t really my favorite color; it’s ALWAYS been green. Red was familiar and how my body felt since I was a little kid; incensed…but my safety is associated with green… and it wasn’t until yesterday that I could determine why I never wanted to pick one over the other.

There hasn’t been a time in my life where I’ve felt like I could let go of my anger because it has kept me as safe as possible. From family, friends, coworkers, lovers, hell, everybody. I’m not saying a few sessions of EMDR have immediately made me feel safe. It hasn’t. I feel as unsafe as I did living this shit while I discuss it… my brain spirals a lot. My biggest looping concern being, “who will be there IF I fail…fall…sink too deep into darkness…or just live out loud in my truth of being mentally unwell?”

I have to give a lot of credit to the new therapist because she’s patient. Her patience has affirmed that I haven’t received enough of it in my life. She also creates huge amounts of space to be honest. This isn’t to say other therapists haven’t done this for me too… she just FEELS different. I feel safe with her enough to let it all out, sooner rather than later. It took me 2 years with my other therapist to get comfortable enough to share why I was really showing up every week. Granted, yes, the new therapist gets paid to sit and listen to my life shitnanigans BUT the tales of terror she’s listened to thus far? I’ve had therapists gasp loudly, look like they’re about to crumble, and inform me that I need to see someone better equipped to deal with my level of trauma. It’s refreshing to know she can deal with the defiant sad girl and everything that’s made me so fucking blue.

The familiarity of rage was my mask for every piece of my broken heart, starting with my family and continuing on through my friendships, work relationships, and romantic relationships. As I admit that I’m a sad girl underneath all of this fury, I cringe a little…because I’ve always preferred being treated with care in a “don’t make the bomb go off” kind of way. People's carefulness around me came from not wanting to experience a blow-up, not from compassion, love, or heartfelt care. Maybe I should have let people see me cry more versus waiting until I was alone to drown my shirts and pillows in tears none of those people were worth. Maybe I should have fallen apart like I felt my heart do every time I was treated like my value was in deficit. Maybe if I allowed people to see my insides on the outside, I would be JUST the sad girl, no defiance included.

But I didn’t because, again, safety. Also, when people see your sadness too often, they treat you like the other side of fragility. They see your sensitivity as a burden, not a warning. You’re handled with kid gloves, not out of fear of an uncontrollable eruption, but to avoid seeing someone experience the depth of their emotions. Sadness makes people steer clear of you just like anger, but for different reasons. People dislike the possible contagion of sadness, whereas anger isn’t viewed as contagious… just destructive.

And as my brain spirals through all the things I could have done differently, I also remind myself that Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda ain’t never done a damn thing for nobody. I also hear my therapist softly telling me to stay in the present.

So, that’s what I’m doing. I’m staying in the presence of my sadness because anger is threatening to kill me. In my efforts to stay alive, though, I’m getting more and more comfortable with letting go of people and things that fuel the seemingly everlasting fire in me. I want to starve these smoldering coals resting in my belly of anything and everything that could help the smolder turn into flame. I don’t want to drown in my sadness, but I don’t think I’ve given it enough space to just BE with me. I’ve pushed it away, for fear it would push others away.

And maybe all it’s done is keep away the truly compassionate, loving, careful, thoughtful, and kind people I needed to be with the sad girl in me. As I think about my future EMDR sessions, I also think about who I’ll grow to become by sitting with how I feel longer than (a figurative) 10 minutes. I don’t think I’ll be a sad girl in the end, but I know I’ll be different from who I am today. I hope that I can maintain healthy boundaries so all of my work doesn’t unravel at the first sign that there’s no care. It’s also my hope that whatever coping mechanisms I develop through this allow me to oscillate between my emotions instead of planting myself in extremes.

This sad girl has high hopes and is eager to see them all come true so the mask of anger is no longer necessary.