I just got a guy's number from a friend.
"I'll forward you his information," she said, and a few seconds later, a new e-mail popped up in my phone with his first and last name, then his cell phone number.
I saved him to my contacts.
He's a counselor. "The best in town," they say.
I got his information Wednesday. Today is Friday, and I haven't done anything. I pull up his number, but I haven't pressed "call" yet. I keep remembering that I need to unload the dishwasher, and oh yeah, I should clean the sheets, or I really, really need to respond to this email. My phone sits all clunky-looking in its Otterbox on my table next to a few crumbs, a dirty paper towel, a pen, a post-it and some baby wipes. I'll get to it later, I think.
One of my favorite movies as a kid was Harriet the Spy. She keeps a secret notebook where she writes down painful details of her and her friends' lives. One day, someone in her class finds her notebook and reads it out loud to all of her classmates. She's devastated. Harriet starts acting out, she's being bullied in school and she's all-around miserable. After a particularly rough day, she plunges headfirst into a bathtub where she envisions every thing that's happened to her. She then rips apart her journals and when her parents come to talk to her, she covers her ears, and whispers,
"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine."
Soon she's screaming,
"I'm fine! I'm fine! I'm fine! I'm fine!"
I do this often. One of the things I hear most about my blog is that I'm vulnerable, and I think it's usually a compliment.
In reality, I'm selectively vulnerable.
There are things I won't put here or anywhere else. I should say, there are stories I won't tell here or anywhere else. I love sharing about myself with you all, because I love when we can connect. But there are other people in the story that made me, well, me--the good me, the bad me, the insecure me, the medicated me, the kind me, the enraged me, the redeemed me, the regretful me...all of it.
There are parts I'm willing to share, be open about, be honest about, but there are other, equally as damaged parts of me that would rather sit on my bedroom floor, cover my ears and tell you,
"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine."
ENTER: the need for said counselor.
I avoid it because I don't want to "go there" you know? I don't want to open that stuff back up and have to look at it, sift through it, talk about it, figure it out.
I told a therapist friend of mine, "I thought I could wait it out."
She laughed, politely, and told me that only makes it worse. "Go to a counselor, heal it, move on," she said.
Fine. I'm not fine.
I guess I should call now, huh?