Inside/Outside

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

An Emotional Storm

“Bill broke up with me Saturday night,” says 28 year old Chelsea in her Monday session, looking as though she may not have slept or bathed since then.
“I’m so sorry…” I begin.
“You didn’t call me back. I called and called and called.”
“I’m sorry, Chelsea, but when I called on Sunday I explained I was at a very long play, didn’t check my phone and got home way too late to call. Did you get my message?”
“It was too late,” Chelsea says, rolling up the left hand sleeve of her blouse.
Always a bit queasy, I resist the urge to look away, her left arm filled with red gashes from what I assume are self-inflicted cuts from a razor blade. “Oh, Chelsea,” I say, “It’s been years since you felt the need to cut yourself. I guess you were mad at both Bill and me.”
“You abandoned me. I couldn’t stand the pain.”
“What made the pain so unbearable?”
“What?” she asks, becoming angry. “That’s a stupid question. The two most important people in my life abandon me and you ask what made the pain so unbearable?”
“You’re definitely angry with me.”
“Duh!”
“But why did you need to turn the anger on yourself, why cut yourself, why not be angry at me, at Bill?”
“What was I supposed to do, go to your house and kill your dog?”
“Was that a fantasy you had on Saturday night?” I ask, hoping I sound calmer than I feel internally.  
“What if it was?”
“You know, Chelsea, it’s always all right to have whatever fantasy you have, as long as it stays a fantasy.”
“Hah! Scared you, didn’t I?”
“It’s a scary fantasy, but the pleasure you took in scaring me indicates just how angry you are at me. I guess what you’re saying is that you felt afraid you couldn’t contain your rage, so had to turn in on yourself.”
“I wanted to kill you! I wanted to kill Bill. I did start swinging at him, but he just pushed me away and told me that’s why he had to get away from me and literally ran out the door.”
“I am sorry, Chelsea. I know you loved Bill and really wanted this relationship to work out.”
“Why don’t they? Why don’t any of my relationships work out?” Chelsea says, starting to cry.
Although we have dealt with the responses to those questions many times over the years – because you’re demanding and needy, because one moment you love the person and the next you hate him, because you can’t tolerate even brief separations without feeling enraged or terrified or both  - I also know this is not the time to revisit them.
“When I didn’t call you back on Saturday, what did you think? Why did you think I didn’t call? And what did you think when I called on Sunday?”
“I felt you were just like Bill. That you didn’t care about me, that you were sick of me just like him, that you wanted to be rid of me.”
“I understand that’s what you felt, Chelsea, but I was asking something a little different. I was asking what you thought. If you thought there might have been a reason I didn’t call you back that might have had nothing to do with you, like maybe I lost my phone or forgot it.”
“But you didn’t. You chose not to call me back.”
“So it would have felt better for you if I’d called after midnight?”
“It would have felt better, but it still would have been too late.”
Only Chelsea’s feelings exist for her at this moment. “You’re caught up in so many painful feelings, Chelsea - hurt, loss, rage, abandonment – that from this place it’s impossible for you to step outside your feelings and try to reflect on them. So maybe it would be better if we focused on helping you not to turn all those feelings on yourself and hurt yourself. Can we do that?”
“I kinda liked doing it, it was like going back to an old friend.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. So are you saying that you think you’re going to start cutting again?”
Chelsea smirks. “That made you angry, didn’t it?”
“You know, I wasn’t aware of feeling angry, but you’ve always been incredibly sensitive and now that you mention it, perhaps that’s true.”
“And that’s one thing I’ve always appreciated about you, your honesty and your willingness to own your own shit.”
“Thank you. So maybe from there we can work on repairing our relationship and move forward.”
“Maybe,” Chelsea says with considerable hesitation.
“I understand. Right now repair feels difficult.”

“Yes, it does.”

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Seeking Protection and Connection

I smile at my new patient, Eileen, as I greet her in the waiting room, extending my hand in introduction. She doesn’t return my smile, but does warily shake my hand. Settling herself stiffly in the chair across from me, she looks slowly around the room.
Oh oh, I think, seems like a pretty disturbed woman, at best distanced and removed, perhaps paranoid, maybe a trauma survivor.  
“I like your office,” she says. “All the windows. Feels free, like floating in space.”
“Thank you,” I say, not sure how to take her comment. An attempt to relate to me? A fear of being confined? A desire for freedom? Hopefully not a wish to jump.
A few moments pass in silence.
“What brings you here?” I ask in traditional therapist mode.
“I have no friends.”
“Can you say more?” I ask, while thinking that her demeanor would certainly make having friends difficult.
“I’m 36 years old. I live alone. I work at home. I’m an IT person, a computer geek.” She shrugs. “There’s no one in my life.”
“Sounds sad.”
“I guess.”
“How do you feel about not having friends?”
“It doesn’t seem normal. People are supposed to have friends.”
“Eileen, what made you decide to come into therapy right now?”
“I found you online. You had a kind face. I liked your website.”
“Like maybe you hoped I’d be your friend?”
“Maybe.”
“Eileen, can you tell me a little about your background, your childhood, your family.”
“It was messed up. My parents divorced when I was two. They’re both alcoholics, drug addicts, both with so many different partners I lost count. And a ridiculous number of so-called siblings. I’d go from one household to the other. Sometimes there would be six, eight of us in a small apartment. I hated it. Felt like I couldn’t breathe. I just wanted everyone to leave me alone. And basically they did.”
“So you learned to put up a wall that said ‘stay away.’”
“Yeah, that’s a good way to put it,” she says nodding. I have the sense she’s pleased by my understanding, although there’s no obvious change in her demeanor.
“Have any idea what’s behind that wall?”  
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when you construct a wall, there’s usually something behind it, something you’re wanting to protect, perhaps something that feels vulnerable or scared.”
“I don’t do vulnerable or scared.”
“So it feels pretty scary to be vulnerable or scared,” I say smiling compassionately. I find myself liking Eileen, feeling sad for the deprived, needy child who must exist behind what feels like an impenetrable barrier.
“I didn’t say that,” she says, stiffening.
“Sorry,” I say, backing off. This is going to be slow, slow going. I need to be careful not to push to glimpse behind that wall too quickly. Her defenses are there for many reasons. They need to be respected, not ripped away.
“You said earlier that there’s no one in your life. Do you see your parents?”
“Not if I can help it. Maybe once or twice a year. Christmas time, Easter. Maybe not.” She shrugs. Doesn’t much matter to me.”
“Was there anyone in your life who did matter to you when you were a child?”
“Like who?”
“A grandparent, a teacher.”
“A math teacher in middle school. She thought I was more than a dumb oaf. She encouraged me. Maybe she was like my friend, except she was my teacher so she couldn’t be my friend. But she’s the one who helped me make something of myself. I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for her. Probably just like my parents. Except without the drugs. I’ve never touched drugs in my life. Swore I never would and I haven’t.”
“That’s pretty amazing determination, Eileen, given where you came from and what you’ve been through.”
“Mrs. H – that’s the teacher – she’d say things like that.”
“And when she or I say things like that, you feel a sense of warmth, of being understood and appreciated.”
She looks down. “Yeah, I guess that’s right.” She pauses. “So are you going to help me learn how to make friends?”
“Yes, Eileen, I am. But we have a lot of work to do before finding friends becomes our focus. First we have to help you find you. We have to find the person behind your wall and that’s going to take time. You’ve been hiding from that person for a long time and a sledge hammer isn’t going to work here. And I suspect it’s going to be painful and scary for you. I’ll be here with you and hopefully that will make it easier, but I’m sure there are times it will be tough going.”
“I’ve been through tough before.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have.”

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Demands

Beverly rushes into my office and throws herself into the chair across from me. “You know,” she begins, “this is just too hard for me. All this running around. I have too many things on my schedule. I mean I know I don’t work – I have no idea how people who work ever manage to get here – but between golf and tennis and bridge and painting – it’s just too much. I need to come on a Saturday. That would work better for me.”
Although I am more than a little annoyed at both Beverly’s demand and at being relegated to the bottom of her list, I decide on an initial non-confrontational approach. “I’m sorry, but I don’t work on Saturdays.”
“You don’t work on Saturdays? How do the people who work get to see you? I suppose they just don’t, right?”
“You’ve been coming for almost a year, Beverly, and you never seemed to have difficulty getting here before. Why do suppose it’s suddenly become an issue for you?”
“I started taking painting lessons. I hadn’t been doing that before.”
“And since you knew you had such a busy schedule, why do you think you decided to add something that might make it harder for you to get here?”
“I didn’t think about it in terms of getting here. I just wanted to take painting lessons.”
“It feels to me, Beverly, that you’re wanting to dismiss the importance of our work together, that you’re saying it doesn’t matter.”
“That’s not fair. You’re the one who won’t see me on Saturday!”
“I think we need to take a step back here. Was there something that happened in our last session that made you feel uncared about? Were you angry with me?”
“You always do that. You always make it about you. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Okay. Then tell me what it does have to do with other than with your schedule.”
“My sister.”
“I remember we talked about your sister last week, about how I saw her as being competitive with you, but that you thought that wasn’t true, that she loved you and always wanted the best for you. And I said both could be true, that she could love you and want the best for you and still be competitive with you.”
“You took her away from me. No one in my family gave a damn about me except her. I was an extraneous being. But Joyce cared about me, looked out for me. And you just took her away.”
“So you are angry with me.”
“I guess. And at her. I’m furious at her. How could she take herself away from me when I relied on her so much? But I decided to show her. She’s the painter you see. I decided I’d become a better painter than her.”  
“So I guess you’re saying you feel competitive with her.”
“No. I’m just getting back at her.”
“Beverly, I want to point out that nothing out there in the real world happened or changed between you and your sister. This is all happening in your mind. You came to see your sister differently. And although you’re entitled to have your feelings, it would be helpful to you if you could hold onto the love and stability your sister provided for you in your chaotic childhood.”
“You’re taking it all back!”
“No. We’ve talked a lot about your living in a black/white world, with no shades of gray. Right now you want your sister to be the perfect sister – whatever that might mean to you – and you want me to be the perfect therapist who would see you whenever you want to be seen. But there is no such thing as a perfect person. You can get a lot of good from one person, but you can’t get everything and that doesn’t make either that person or you bad. And you can feel competitive towards your sister or towards me and that doesn’t make you bad either.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me. If she’s competitive with me how could she always be on my side? Sometimes she’d be on her side.”
“Well I suppose that’s true. But if she wanted, just let’s say, to be a better painter than you, that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t want you to be a better golfer or to find a loving husband or to take great joy from your children. Because there was so much cruelty and rejection in your childhood, it’s difficult for you to believe that someone can be in your corner and still take care of themselves. That’s like me saying I’m here for you, but I don’t work on Saturdays.”
“That makes me mad all over again.”
“I believe you. We’ll keep working on it.”


Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Divorce?

“I’m considering getting a divorce,” 52 year old Evelyn says, starting the session.
Although her marriage has been rocky for some time, this pronouncement surprises me given that her husband recently had a heart attack and by-pass surgery. She seemed genuinely concerned about him and committed to helping him through the rehabilitation process. I remain silent.
“I was listening to this program on NPR, On Point, and there was this doctor on who wrote a book about solving medical mysteries. I don’t remember his name, but it was interesting.”
I heard a small part of that program too, but I wait to hear what led Evelyn from that program to her considering divorce.
“There was a man who had a heart attack who’d had a bad heart so his heart attack was no surprise, kind of like Jack. But then the doctor went on to say that like the very next day or something like that, his wife had a heart attack too. And she had been perfectly healthy. And the doctor said it was the stress, almost like being too close to her husband and having to have a heart attack just like him. Well, I don’t want that to be me. I know this might sound awful, but Jack’s not worth my health. He hasn’t been a good enough husband for me to lay down my life for him.”
Feeling unsure what to say, I continue to remain silent.
“Do you think I’m awful?” Evelyn asks.
“No, of course not, but I am a little confused. I heard a small part of that program too…”
“Do you remember the doctor’s name? I thought I could get his book.”
“No, I didn’t hear much of the program, but what I remember is that he was talking about a couple that was extremely loving and close and that it was that closeness that led to the wife’s distress and her perhaps unconscious need – those are my words, not his – to identify with her husband and go through the same experience he had.”
“Well I guess if that was true, I wouldn’t have to worry about that.”
“Evelyn, am I mistaken or do you feel particularly angry today?”
She shrugs. “I guess.”
“Can you say what’s going on?”
“I’ve been busting my butt taking care of Jack and do you think I even get so much as a thank you?!” All he does is bitch and complain – I’m in so much pain, I’m scared, what if this happens again, why does my right arm still hurt. Complain, complain, complain. I’m sick of it.”
Jack has definitely been a less than ideal husband - inattentive, otherwise preoccupied and, most likely, unfaithful. Still, Evelyn has stayed with him, continually hoping that she could make him different, just as she longed to do with her absent and eventually abandoning father. Still, right after a major scare and trauma seems an unusual time to be considering divorce. Then a thought comes to me.
“Evelyn, do you think this time you especially thought it would be different? Jack was scared and vulnerable. Maybe he’d need you in a different way? Maybe he’d let you in as he hadn’t before?”  
Evelyn hangs her head. “Stupid of me, wasn’t it,” she says, her anger now turned on herself.
“No, definitely not stupid. It was you hoping again, hoping you – or something – could make Jack different, just as you hoped with your father.”
“But it is stupid! How many times do I have to go through the same thing to know it’s not going to work? It’s like continually hitting my head against the same brick wall.”
“It’s hard to give up hope. It’s hard to mourn what never was and never will be.”
“I can’t stand when you talk about mourning. Who wants to mourn, who wants to be sad all the time?”
“So you’d rather be angry.”
“Damn straight.”
“Well, it’s reasonable to be angry, but if you’re only angry you can’t ever finish the process of letting go.”
Evelyn’s eyes pierce me with fury.
“And,” I continue, “to end up being angry at everyone – yourself, me, your children, your friends - that doesn’t lead to a very fulfilling life.”
“So should I stay with Jack?”
“That’s a decision only you can make, Evelyn. But I do know regardless of what decision you make, you will have to mourn the impossible.”

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Failure to Thrive

“I’ve decided to write a book,” Karen announces at the beginning of her of session. Dressed in casual jeans, no make-up with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, Karen looks younger than her 48 years.
Although her declaration leads me to think, ‘Oh no, not another idea that goes nowhere,’ I take a more supportive approach. “In art history?” I ask, Karen’s area of specialty.
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. I have to do something. I can’t go on just being Dr. Thomas Hartfield’s wife. It’s too boring. I don’t want to have to get all dressed up and hang out at the club playing bridge, gossiping with the women.”
“Weren’t you recently talking about wanting to open an art gallery?”
“Yes. I still think that’s a good idea, but I don’t know, there’d have to be so many people involved, people I’d have to manage. It seems overwhelming. Writing is something I can do on my own, at my own time, in my own space.
“Of course, I haven’t written anything since I was in college. I was pretty good back then. I think I considered majoring in English. But then again I thought about majoring in lots of things. I’m not even sure how I ended up with a major in art history. I guess because I hung around college for so long and had so many credits, they told me it was time for me to graduate and art history was it.”
“So it seems, Karen, we’re back to talking about how difficult it is for you to make a decision and to carry a plan through to fruition.”
She sighs. “You don’t think I’d write that book do you?”
“Well, I don’t have a crystal ball, but when you say that you don’t  know what you want to write about, it seems you could get stuck right there. I’d be concerned you could think endlessly about what you did or didn’t want to write and never be able to move beyond that point.”
“How did you know what you wanted to write?” Karen asks me.
I don’t introduce my book into my therapy sessions, but many patients Google me and find it online. Now I wonder if there’s some relationship between my book and Karen’s sudden interest in writing. “Before I answer that question, Karen, can I ask you how you feel about my having written a book?”
“Envious. You were able to follow through and do it. But maybe also inspired, like if you can write a book maybe I can too.” She hesitates.
“What just happened there?”
“Nothing. I guess I got anxious. There are so many choices. I don’t know how anyone ever decides on one path over another. I don’t know how you pick. I don’t know how you pick one and give up the others. So how did you decide what to write about?”
I wonder about Karen’s anxiety. Does she worry I’d feel angry or vindictive if she wrote a book? Does making one choice over others bring up fear of loss? Keeping these questions in mind, I answer Karen. “I felt compelled to write about my relationship with my late husband. I think there’s often an emotional press in writing; you have something you have to say. It’s like being in therapy. It’s sharing a vital part of yourself that you want to be known.”    
“Do you think I don’t want to be known?”
“That’s a very interesting question. What do you think?”
“Well declaring myself, taking path A rather than path B would be a way of being more known.”
I’m silent, intrigued by Karen’s train of thought.
“But why wouldn’t I want to be known?”
“I was just asking myself the same thing.”
Silence.
“Weird. The words, ‘You’re a moving target’ just went through my head.” Pause. “Who did I think would shoot me?”
I wonder if it’s me, but I remain silent.
“My oldest sister for sure. She was horribly jealous of me. I was the pretty one, although I made myself as unattractive as possible until she left for college. She’d cut up my clothes, steal all my panties. One time she even cut off part of my hair in the middle of the night.”
“That’s called abuse, Karen,” I say, surprised by this revelation I had not previously heard.
“You think?”
“Definitely. What did your parents do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember telling them. Maybe I did. Maybe they said we had to work it out. That part of my childhood is a bit fuzzy.” Pause. “Do you think this is relevant?”
“I definitely think this is relevant, Karen. We have to stop now, but we definitely need to spend more time understanding how your sister affected your life.”


Wednesday, February 15, 2017

The March

“I finally went to dinner at my parent’s,” 19 year old Bethany says dejectedly. “It was pretty bad. They just won’t let up. ‘I can’t believe you lied to us, going to the Women’s March on Washington without even telling us. If we hadn’t called and talked to your roommate we would never have known. What if something had happened to you? We didn’t even know you were gone.’ Blah, blah, blah. As if that was the issue. I bet if I went to the Trump Inaugural they would have been thrilled – even if I hadn’t told them. It’s such bullshit. They did do a bit of, ‘How could you be our child and believe those people have a right to marry.’ Or, ‘Didn’t we teach you that every life is sacred, especially the unborn, those most vulnerable?’ I thought I’d puke. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.” Pause. “I suppose you’re thinking, ‘I told you you should have told them.’”
“I don’t remember telling you you should have told them,” I say, surprised.
“You asked me why I didn’t tell them, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but that was a question meant to help you look at why you do or don’t do whatever.”
“Well, the answer’s pretty obvious. If I tell them I get all this shit. Just like I did.”
“And what did you say when you got all this shit?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yeah. What am I going to say? You can’t argue with them. I just sit there, trying to tune them out, hoping they’ll stop sooner than later.”
“And why do you feel you can’t argue with them?”
She raises her eyebrows and snorts. “I don’t mean to be nasty, but how long has it been since you were 19?”
I smile inwardly. Although it’s been quite a while since I was 19, I do clearly remember the arguments I had with my parents, most especially my father. Not about politics. There are values were pretty similar, but often about psychology and science. My father was angry, dogmatic and unrelenting. For years, I argued and argued with him about dreams, about the cause of mental illness, about the unconscious, until I finally gave up. Then I was like Bethany, sitting at the table saying nothing, hoping he’d stop sooner than later. On the other hand, I never, ever stopped battling my father’s vicious temper, trying to put a clear limit how he could treat me. I bring myself back to my patient. “I get that it can be difficult to argue with your parents when you’re 19, but I’d like to understand specifically why YOU can’t argue with your parents, even at 19.”
She sighs. “First, they have the money. If they get mad enough, there goes college, plus whatever else.”
“Would they do that? They sound pretty determined for you to get an education, pretty invested in it.”
“They are.” Pause. “Especially my Dad. But sometimes I think my Mom believes I’m being corrupted by college, too liberal you know. And, I don’t know. This may sound weird, but I’m not sure that my Mom really wants me to succeed, like maybe she’s jealous or something. Like she never went to college, so why should I.”
“So are you saying you’re afraid your mother might undermine you?”
“I never thought of it that way, but I guess so. If I gave her any ammunition. Like the Women’s March.”
She pauses.
“I need to ask you something. What did you think about the Women’s March?”
“I’ll answer that in a minute, Bethany, but first I want to ask you something. Why did you ask that question right at this moment?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it and just felt I had to ask.”
“Well, I have a thought as to why you had to ask right then. You were talking about your mother feeling threatening, dangerous and I wonder if you suddenly felt I might be dangerous too and had to check that out.”
“Are you?” she says quietly.

“No, Bethany, I’m not dangerous.” I could tell Bethany I was at the Women’s March too, but decide that might too greatly diminish the tension around the issue of whether difference between two people, perhaps especially two women, is inherently dangerous. “I suspect that our politics might be pretty similar, but even if it wasn’t, I’d still be on your side, still wanting you to have your own voice and make your own way in the world.”

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

How Grown Up Am I?

“My house feels like a morgue,” 20 year old Chelsea says looking down at her hands. “I guess that’s a poor choice of words, since it sort of is, but not exactly. I mean, I’m not happy I had to have an abortion, but I also don’t think it will be the greatest tragedy of my life. And truthfully, I don’t think it’s the abortion that my parents are so upset about. They don’t like the idea that their ‘little girl’ was having sex. It’s not like I’m 14. And Brad and I have been going together for two years. He was pretty upset too. I think he feels guilty that he didn’t use a condom 100% of the time.”
I have been seeing Chelsea for several years now, watching her struggle between wanting to remain the child who is forever taken care of by her parents and striving towards adulthood with her own dreams and desires. We have a close bond although, not surprisingly, her internal struggle is often replayed with me in the consulting room.
“What are you going to use for birth control in the future?” I ask.
“We’re not. We’re not going to have sex.”
I knit my brows, puzzled and skeptical. “You mean you’re not going to have sex until you give yourself some time after the abortion?”
“No. We’re not going to have sex. Or at least not intercourse. Maybe we’ll fool around a little, maybe not.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Why, what?”
“Why did you decide not to have sex? Do you feel more guilty about the abortion than you’re saying? Is it a way to punish yourself?”
“No! For heaven’s sake, I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about it. You sound like my parents!”
“In what way?”
“In making such a big deal about sex.”
“Wait. I’m getting confused. I thought your parents were making a big deal about your having sex. I’m questioning your saying that you’re not going to have sex.”
“You mean you don’t believe me? You don’t think I can give up sex?” Chelsea says angrily.
“I’m trying to understand why you’d want to give up sex.”
“Because I don’t want to risk getting pregnant again. That seems pretty simple.”
“I hear you’re angry with me but I’m not clear why.”
“Everyone thinks I’m doing something wrong and you’re just like everyone else,” Chelsea says, her voice cracking. “If I say I’m not going to have sex, I’m not going to have sex! End of discussion.”
“And how does Brad feel about that?”
Chelsea crosses her arms in front of her chest and glares at me. “Why should I care how Brad feels?”
Aware I’m feeling more and more confused, I suspect my feelings mirror Chelsea’s own confusion. “Chelsea, tell me what’s going on. What’s going on inside of you? What has you so distressed?”
“Brad wanted me to have the baby. He said we should get married, that we were old enough, that we could both work and go to school and take care of the baby.” She pauses. Tears fall silently from her eyes. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I’m not ready. I don’t want to be responsible for another person. I don’t want to leave my parent’s house and go off on my own. It’s way too scary. Brad’s really mad at me. I’m not even sure we’ll stay together.”
“I’m sorry, Chelsea. It’s like your parents are mad at you for being too adult and Brad’s mad at you for not being adult enough and each side represents your own conflict about how grown up you feel or want to be.”
“Yeah, that’s right. That’s exactly right.”
“And does my asking you about birth control feel like I’m pushing you towards the adult side?”
“I guess. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose it does.” She pauses. “So what about my deciding not to have sex? Is that my going towards the child side?”
“What do you think?” I ask, aware that my not answering her question could also be construed as my pushing her to be more adult.
“Yeah, I suppose it is,” she sighs. “But is that so bad? Can’t I take a little break here?”
“You can, but none of us can stop time. We keep growing older whether we like it or not, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have conflicting feelings about growing up and it also doesn’t mean you have to push yourself to act or be more grown up than you feel.”

“Thanks. You gave me a lot to think about.”