Sometimes you have weeks and weeks of baby steps, where the little progress you make is measured in cups of coffee, newspapers read, calendar items completed. The mediocrity of life means that the daily becomes the derailed, and the baby steps are steps that equate to normal living, to taking up space, paying your taxes, eating bread and clocking in time sheets. This daily living isn't without feeling, it's not a waste, it's only extraordinary in the very ordinariness.

And some weeks are revolutionary. Some weeks stand out in the mind, and even get marked in the internal yearbook, where a picture perfect memory is logged next to a smiling photo, in between the words '2 Cool 2 Be 4-Gotten' and 'Friends Forever!' and a signature next to someone you don't even remember. Occasionally, the baby steps are interrupted by giant progress, which takes you from training wheels to High School graduation in the space of 7 days.

This week is shaping up to be one of those weeks.

It's a Big Step Day today, another move forward, and yet it also seems like a Baby Step. Since I had a pencil and took those tests on a cold February morning, it has been a part of me, as much a part of me as learning how to blow bubbles or finding out I am double-jointed. Sometimes it is never very far away from me the fact that inside my mind, I am not 100%, and other times I wear it like a quilt I have knit myself-I know every patch, and I remember every stitch.

Many years ago while living in Cary, NC, I tried to see a therapist. He was a short man with a wiry frame, and he sat in an armchair that had one top corner slightly threading. I was sent to see him as I was nearly committed, and in being nearly committed I freaked out. When I freaked out, they agreed I could be an outpatient, and on day one I had to attend a group therapy session.

Group therapy, for someone who has never, ever spoken of their problems ever, is a whole new version of hell.

I sobbed and sobbed, and a psychiatric nurse kindly took me to another room and talked to me. There, I told her that I had never in my life spoken to anyone about my problems, that one just didn't do that where I was from, where you sucked it up and took it and you never ever told anyone what was inside EVER. I remember her eyes-they were large and brown, and had kind lines to the side. She had too little mascara, and her hands were plump. I know this, as when she hugged me I felt like she could understand, that those plump hands might protect anyone she loved.

I was sent to the little man, but I was already warned off by my group therapy experience. I couldn't talk to him about anything more than the banal, and when I moved away from NC it was without leaving a single drop of my soul on that carpet. Can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man.

In Sweden, the very basic instinct to survive took over. I had an armchair psychiatrist named Dave, a nice man with a nice face who listened and, before I left, started to take my puzzle pieces and build a border. The whole middle was still missing, there were puzzle pieces scattered to every fucking corner of my mind, but he would work on it with me.

I believed him. I talked to him and I never lied to him, and even though I worried the gremlins from my past would come and shred me to bits for talking, I knew that the consequences of not talking were even more dire. I would rather be shredded than not be.

And I started writing my blog as a way of continuing to force myself to talk.

And I talked to Angus as a way of trying to reach out and let my fingers find another human being.

And I started to break, and in breaking, I would heal.

But then I lost my job, I lost my house, I lost my world, and I jumped and moved into my New Life. My New Life, while equipped with many fantastic sparklies and beautiful things that capture me completely, is lacking one thing-I am only a border of a puzzle. I need someone to help me on the other thousand pieces.

I received a card from a friend of Angus' last week. It was a business card, a dual-sided business card, with one side in English and one side in Swedish. I read both sides, and there it was-a psychotherapist who spends half his time in Stockholm, half his time in London.

A psychotherapist with access to my medical records in Sweden, who is also located here. A psychotherapist who wouldn't make me retake all those tests, and those tests can make even he sanest person feel crazy. A psychotherapist who will be in country part of the week, which is ok as my fucking schedule couldn't allow for meeting him more than that.

I called the psychotherapist.

'My name is Helen.' I tell him. 'I need someone to talk to.'

'How can I help, Helen?' He says kindly. He is much older from the sound of his voice, and has a cut-glass English accent.

'I was seeing a psychotherapist in Stockholm. The kommun paid for me to see him twice a week, I was very ill. I don't know that I am any better now, although daily living is much easier.'

He was quiet.

'I am not good at this, I am not good at talking to people, but I swear if you will take me on I will try to never lie to you. I am good at lying to people who may find out my secrets, but I need to let them all out.'

'How about we meet and see if I can help you?' he asks kindly.

My heart is beating fast. 'Can you help people with BPD?' I ask him softly.

'Some of my patients have BPD. It's not unknown to me. I help people that have had a major break.'

I nod, and look at the desk. 'I have tried to commit suicide. I have tried it 3 times. I think it's fair to say I have broken. Don't worry-I'm not going to try again. I'm interested in living, but that doesn't mean I am all better now.'

'Thank you for trusting me with that. I know it must be hard to talk about.' He replies gently.

And I am sold. We book an appointment, and so later on today after my morning meetings I am making my way to northwest London to talk to the nice, gentle man about my puzzle pieces. I know things don't happen overnight, I know the mending and sewing will take years.

But I am planning on living, and in living, I have the time it's going to take.

Baby steps to being healthy. Baby steps to talking. Baby steps to letting go.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared.

Hopeful.

And scared.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:01 AM | Comments (22) | Add Comment
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