I’m back from home now and have a week until I start my final year of medical school. I know it’s going to take me a while to bounce back, as it always does, so have been thinking about how to get through the next few days. I’m feeling a bit numbed to everything, a bit crowded out, and have a feeling it’s going to be a tough session. There were some good things last week, as I caught up with my oldest friend, who, after thirteen years, is more of a sister, and also a male friend I was very close to (read: desperately but sadly unrequitedly in love with) in my last few years of school – they were both really encouraging, and it was good to talk about stuff with people who have known me since childhood. I love them both a lot.
I was back in counselling again this afternoon and am feeling pretty frustrated. L and I talked a bit about this week and family stuff in general and at one point, she asked who had supported me when my dad was drinking when I was younger, who I turned to and talked to, and all I could say, was, ‘no-one’. Until my ill-fated first encounter with a counsellor in my second year of medical school, I hadn’t really told a soul. I’d done it alone. I was too afraid to tell anyone, too ashamed. I’ve never really thought about it – aside from wanting to help make sure that other kids don’t go through that, some how. And it wasn’t the answer I gave that hurt, or the realisation I get now that I wasn’t that old to be handling as much family stuff as I was, or the sadness I sometimes get now, that my family aren’t the supportive group I’d like them to be, who accept me, warts and all, through thick and thin – it was the look of intense pity on L’s face that really broke me. I don’t want pity, I don’t want any of the ‘poor little you’ comments, or that look on someone’s face that suddenly makes you realise that things were pretty crap to be honest, a lot crapper than most people’s time growing up was, that look that cements what you’ve suspected for so long, that somewhere inbetween the birthdays and holidays, as you grew taller and older, you were broken and damaged by the world around you, in a way most people manage to escape.
Sometimes you have that moment where you just know, that you’ll remember that slice of time forever, and that’s how her look made me feel earlier, as though it’s burned in, branded into my memories. I keep waiting for things to get easier, to find some release from all this, for counselling to start to heal all those wounds that have become such a part of me, and it’s yet to happen. I know I feel raw, at the moment, and tired of it; I know I feel as though I’ll never get through this, that my wounds will always be open, that my heart will always be covered in a layer of dust, cast in shadows (aware this is slightly hyperbolic – sorry, may edit later). I’m feeling like a bit of a hopeless case at the moment – that I’ll be someone who always gets through on paper, most likely very well – but that behind closed doors, I’ll always be falling apart, I’ll always be on the verge of destruction. I’ll never find rest or peace. I’ll never gain the freedom I’m meant to have, through Jesus. I need to get better at figuring out which wounds are able to heal and which aren’t, and accept them. I’ve got three weeks off now, and am kind of angry about it – I want to get through and over this, and this just draws it out for another few weeks, but there’s nothing I can do, and it’s no-ones fault. Must learn patience etc.
I’ve got lost of positives to focus on this week – I’m meeting a doctor I really respect to talk about this extra project, and on Friday it’s the learning disability church group I help with – I’ve missed the last few meetings due to exams, and am really looking forward to seeing them all, they’re so easy to love, and it’s always a real boost to my faith, if only because who doesn’t feel close to God after dressing up in a sheet to act out one of the Parables, as Jesus, to help someone understand more about who he was? The week can only get better.
Learning to be still 