The Therapy Gods Are Undefeated | Season Two: Episode 2
Disclaimer:
I speak openly about my experience dealing with grief in a romantic relationship context. I refer to people and locations using the word [Redacted].
A little intro
I’ve been asked whether I’m growing from this wound, or just waiting for time to do its thing. I reflected on the emotional markers, therapeutic observations, and recounted the empty bottles of Veuve and pizza boxes once used to call up the spirits — basically a Ouija board for the sacred nervous system. You’re welcome.
We start at the end, where disillusionment enters. The desired outcome: returning to life without the hole in my chest that still holds love for [Redacted]. All is well — until I realize again it was never well.
I accepted long ago that I’m mourning the relationship I thought I had, not the one I was actually having. I’m not stuck here — at least not all of me.
I know I looked insane to my friends — because they told me, lovingly. I vented for hours on company time. They laughed with me at my three whiteboards filled with data and art drawings, as I tried to turn all this f*ckin’ pain into something useful while finally letting go of who [Redacted] clearly wasn’t.
I’ve processed enough now to answer the question clearly: I am growing.
Reflections
Reflections
There have been many shifts within me — a kind of metamorphosis. If you’re willing, we can fall down the rabbit hole together.
Think about a caterpillar’s transformation. We picture it building a cocoon and then — abracadabra — a butterfly emerges. My issue with the butterfly metaphor is that it feels far too quiet for how often it’s used in memes filled with “time heals” jargon and “trust the process” platitudes.
I’m the first to admit we shouldn’t be clapping for that caterpillar when all it did was eat a lot (according to Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar) and then sleep through the transformation, waking up brand new, like a kid on the first day of school running for student council president.
Maybe I don’t have an updated copy of the children’s classic, but I’ve never heard crying from a cocoon. My metamorphosis wasn’t quiet. I didn’t eat the equivalent of a buffet and fall asleep so deeply that I woke up in a new outfit that didn’t need ironing.
What did that caterpillar learn about itself?
All you did, Butterfly, was eat and sleep. Bro — do you even meditate?
I needed a better description.
So I thought of Logan from the X-Men, Wolverine. I remember watching the cartoon as a kid, seeing him scream as claws sprang from his hands. His body twisted, sweat poured, muscles convulsed. When it was over, he collapsed from exhaustion like a wet dishrag on the floor.
I know now what I was too young to understand then: whatever Wolverine was fighting, he was moving through that pain by channeling some serious f**k-forever-you energy.
Same, Wolverine. Same.
One of the biggest reflections of where I am now is this uncomfortable truth: all that’s left of the “us” I love(d) is me. And I’m here to share that the part of me that grieved so deeply is actually better off without the “us.”
You got it 🤍
Here is the clean, web-ready copy with all edits incorporated and no markings.
Observations
#1. I surrendered to the painful feeling in order to function.
I needed enough mental footing to regulate the intensity of my emotions so I could eventually see things more clearly.
Grief is an ongoing process. I had to allow the pain room to exist. As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “If you knew how much work it took to become this gentle, you would be more kind.”
This is a process, not a penance. Life is messy.
Surrendering fully to taking care of myself became the foundation that carried me through the many demons I hadn’t foreseen.
#2. The lies I told myself were valuable.
Dissociation was a gift. It’s like when Super Mario gets a star and can run through anything long enough to make it to the other side.
What I needed was time and gentleness. Healing isn’t a race — especially not one through quicksand.
Up next: Part Two.
See you there,
That Friend Katie