Photo By Christopher Campbell on Unsplash
I used to think I understood pain. I’d been through heartbreak and grief. I knew how hard it could be to pick myself up, but I’d always managed.
This time, I couldn’t.
I felt empty. I started questioning my worth, my purpose, even who I was.
I stopped eating. I couldn’t sleep. I stopped caring about things that had mattered to me. My husband would leave for work in the morning and come home to find me in the same place.
One night, I sat at the table staring at untouched food. I knew I needed to eat. I just couldn’t bring myself to.
I remember going to a party, smiling while people around me laughed. I wanted someone to notice how much I was hurting. But I kept trying to look okay.
Even music felt different. I played my favorite songs and felt nothing. I knew every word, but I couldn’t connect with what I was hearing.
Sometimes people reached out and I didn’t respond. I wanted their support, but I doubted whether they would stay. I also wondered whether I deserved that much care.
One Saturday, I sent a message to a friend.
I hadn’t planned what to say. I told her how much I was hurting, then almost immediately regretted sending it.
She listened. She didn’t tell me to be strong or remind me of everything I had to be grateful for. She let me talk.
I still felt awful afterward. But someone knew.
There was still a lot to face. In therapy, I talked about things I’d avoided for years. Some sessions I cried. In others, I felt numb and struggled to explain what was happening.
Once, my therapist asked, “What do you need to hear from yourself?”
Through tears, I said, “I don’t know. I just want to stop feeling like this.”
I didn’t have anything reassuring to tell myself. I just wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to feel like myself again.
It took time before I could think about what I needed beyond wanting the pain to stop.
I repeatedly asked, “Why am I like this? Why can’t I just be okay?” I wanted an answer. I wanted to know what to do and how long it would take.
I kept going to therapy. I leaned on people I trusted. Slowly, I began to notice how harshly I treated myself when I was already hurting.
I was struggling to eat, to sleep, to get through a day. And on top of that, I was judging myself for struggling.
Understanding that didn’t immediately change it. I still got frustrated with myself. But I began to let go of the expectation that I should somehow be able to pull myself out of this through willpower.
Gradually, hope came back.
I still have difficult days. Now I recognize when I need support, and I ask for it. A hard day is a hard day now. It says nothing about my worth.
The people who supported me mattered. I’m grateful they were there. I also needed to learn that I deserved care before anyone reassured me of it.
That was the answer to my therapist’s question. It took me a long time to find it.
If you’re in that place now, I know telling someone can feel like asking too much.
You can tell someone how bad it is while you’re still in it. You don’t have to wait until you can explain it calmly, or finish the story by saying you’re okay now.
I nearly took my message back. I’m glad I sent it.
