Echoes.

I wonder what the big stigma is with therapists.
I have one. My daughter has one.
I think everyone should have one.

What is the big deal with having someone with no emotional bias attached to your life listen to your problems, offer advice and insight, and to encourage you to improve your mental health, step by step.

And by mental health, I don’t mean that you’re mentally UNhealthy before you go, simply that there is something wonderful about being totally and completely encouraged to improve your relationships with those around you, to aim for your dreams and BELIEVE you can achieve them, and to teach you how to stop equating your self worth with the size of your body, the initials after your name, or what material things you have accomplished in your life.

Although most of us have friends – at least a few CLOSE friends – there is something to be said about an outside point of view.
Something to be said about learning something about ourselves with a few intuitive questions and time to wonder.

But as a dramatic time in my life approaches, I wonder why it’s looked down upon, this soul-searching, soul-SAVING that I encourage everyone to enjoy.
Being told I’m unfit was quite a shock – through all the mud-slinging that has gone on behind my back, I hadn’t received that one directly… only through my daughter. But now, on legal papers no less, I realize that I’ll have to answer questions that were privately my own and now will belong to others.

Am I unfit?
No. Perhaps at one time, 12 years ago, without the tools or the smarts to pull it off by myself.
But I didn’t have to – I’m lucky in that, and because of my family’s help, I grew and grew quickly.
Now I’m more than fit, more than stable, more than mature and strong enough to handle almost anything that comes my way.

Including this, my biggest fear, my biggest challenge.

So unfit is more a laughable insult – a discredit to what I accomplished with my parents help, and all that I’ve accomplished in the years since. To those who oppose me, I’m still the same person I was at 16 and always will be. I can’t help that – I can’t fix that – but I have the calm in facing that as one who knows what it’s like to work two jobs to feed and clothe and take care of someone who’s counting on them.
I am a woman, a mature woman. A mother who’s sacrificed – and is blissfully happy for the opportunity to have done so.

I’m not ashamed for needing help to maintain perspective. There are times when I look around and think that the heartbreak my daughter has had and I’m surprised I haven’t needed more time to yell at the unfairness of it all.

The medical bills, the daycare, the school costs, the clothes, the tears, the sick days, the phone calls… Who wouldn’t need an outlet at the thought of losing the ability to make sure the person they loved most in the world was okay.

If she’s okay, I’m okay.

Sometimes we need a little help – a little perspective.
And I’m sorry, but I can’t find it in myself to be ashamed of that, no matter the cultural stigma.