Some things from my past have decided to revisit me. Not that this is any sort of problem. And these are the types of things I have only discussed with bishops and therapists. And a few nonmember or ex-member friends. Of the church.
I recall sitting on that white couch, trying to muster the courage just to blurt stuff out. My therapist was excellent. Always objective, always guiding my train of thought to some new insight. And once I said it, once it was translated to sound waves, it was much easier to work with than being nebulous electrical arcs jumping between brain cells.
That’s kind of a miracle, people. And I can call it that because it helped me heal.
Since I’ve mentioned drinking here before, I’ll use that as an example. I told my therapist about my experience with alcohol. The social appeal. The sometimes numbing effect. Then [they] asked what else I liked about it. [They] asked what my favorite drinks were. I got it all out of my system, so to speak, right there on that white couch. [They] didn’t outright link that to the depression I’d gone through, but [they] didn’t have to.
Then there are other, older, deeper parts of my past that I discussed over the course of a couple of years. If you are not my therapist, I won’t discuss them here. If you were my bishop, I’ve already been absolved. If you are a friend somehow removed from the church, I trust you’ll keep my confidence. These events in my history are still a part of me, and they linger only obscurely, and only to remind me how far I’ve come.
I have to admit, though, when they decide to reemerge, it sure is hard keeping those ghosts at bay.