Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

This week, I left my counselor's office for the last time. It was the last time because the agency for which she works had their funding cut and can't afford to keep her around.

So, while it was an artificial ending, we were building to this point anyway. After all, she told me, the ultimate proof of success is handling things on your own.

When I initially started going to counseling, it was once a week. Then it was once every two weeks. Lately, it's been once a month.

As I walked away, down the careful brick sidewalk, I felt like throwing my hat in the air, like Mary Tyler Moore. But I wasn't wearing a hat.

I felt a little sad, too, because I've gotten so used to talking my counselor, working things out with her. Yet, in one sense, she's still with me. I've found that, more and more often, when I get upset over something, I find myself saying, like she would say, "Where are the emotions coming from?" And that helps me to figure out what the real problem is and what I can do about it.

For a short while after leaving the office, I felt like I was on a high wire without a safety net. But as that initial feeling passed, I'm realized that my safety net is me, anyway.

I know one thing I won't miss about her office, and that's the wall paper. It was probably meant to be neutral, but it was an eggshell antique print with accents of blue and pink. It was set inside wood panels on the wall, also painted eggshell. The walls were frustratingly uninteresting, unyielding and neutral. My eyes would shift to that wall paper as I tried to come up with a response to a question she'd asked. The wall paper yielded nothing. My eyes traced the wooden borders, looking for something to hang onto. Tracing the pale corners, ultimately forced to find the idea inside myself.

I won't miss her desk, either: flat and brown with a few scratches on it. The desk was hard and unyielding.

But then there was my counselor, sitting across the table with her salt-and-pepper hair and her wide smile, with those probing, wise eyes. She reminded me of my mother, having the same practical strength, the same ability to talk me through anything. But unlike Mom, she didn't become weak-kneed when I cried. Instead, she'd ask, "Where are the tears coming from?"

The morning of our last session, I made her a thank-you card on the computer, in appreciation of helping me towards healing. When I gave it to her, she appeared really moved. "Thank you!" she exclaimed. It was the least I could do for someone who has given me a new life.

When I first started going to her, I was still reeling from the cumulative effects of several previous emotionally abusive relationships. I have a new perspective on that now, and most of those issues are resolved. My most frequent response to difficulties any more is laughter. It's an automatic sort of reaction, where I find myself both inside and outside of the situation. That sort of distance helps me to cope, and the automatic response of laughter is its own balm. For example, before counseling, if I had an incredibly busy day (like I did both Thursday and Friday) and if my editors kept contacting me literally the minute I was settling down for some writing or relaxation (which they did, both days), I would have gnashed my teeth and wailed. But this time, whenever that happened, I chuckled ironically and said, "Well, here we go again." It helped me keep my focus and not waste my time fretting in a situation that (as I'll realize when the check comes in a few weeks) is ultimately for the best.

I feel as if I've graduated, but it's unlike any previous graduation. This is the way I believe graduation is supposed to feel, where you're glad you're moving on but part of you wonders if you're ready. And yet, you know you've earned this achievement, and that -- even if you don't quite believe it -- you're ready for the next step.

When I graduated from high school, I was just happy to be getting out of there. When I graduated from college, I knew I was sticking around for grad school, and most of my friends were going to be around for at least another year. When I graduated from grad school, I was all set for new adventures, such as a road trip I didn't know would lead up the Mississippi to Canada and an encounter with a bear.

But here I am moving on again, and this one means so much more to me than the others did. For the past 10 years or more, I wanted deeply to rediscover the confident, buoyant person I was as a college undergrad. And now, I feel as if I've done it. I am that person, and I was the whole time, too, underneath it all. I just had to free myself.

As I got in my truck and drove away, Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Are Made for Walking" came on the radio. I laughed.

Come on, boots, start walking.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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