I. Can. Not.
the path gives way to love.
Forty years ago my mom took me to a counselor. We drove to the west side of Houston and she sat in the car while I had my appointment. I was 17. I can only imagine how many people told my mom I needed therapy. I remember reading through the paperwork before the session. I noted that it would be a fifty minute “counseling hour”. It would cost a certain fee. I was prepared with my checkbook. I watched the clock as my hour ticked by and the therapist continued asking questions and talking beyond our allotted counseling hour. At the time for payment, I noticed she was charging me for an extra 15 minutes. When I questioned why the higher fee, she explained that because we had gone over the standard counseling hour, it would cost more. That was my first taste of counseling.
Years later I found myself knee deep in anxiety. I had completed my hours for licensure and it was time to take my exam. I had many dear clients and worked in a local counseling practice. Receiving my license was the next step in my work. It was a fall Saturday morning in Houston and I was filled to the brim with anxiety. But nothing came close to the level of anxiety I felt when I saw my score. I received a 74.5 and needed a 75 to pass. I spent the next months sleepless, endlessly studying and acutely stressed. Someone recommended Xanax. Another suggested I didn’t need the license. Still another offered that her sister had an anxiety problem that was transformed by work she had done with a therapist on the east side of Houston. A week later I was sitting across from him.
Dr. So and So had the bright orange book he had written about Jesus and healing laying on his desk. It did look mighty impressive. He also sat behind his big desk where presumably he had the paperwork I had given him telling him all about me and why I was there. He seemed not to get past the first line. Somehow our counseling hour was spent discussing his therapy career and how he had arrived behind that desk. I remember thinking how unhelpful this conversation was for my anxiety problem. But I was trying to practice patience and to not be judgy. So I booked another session.
We met the day before I was headed out of town with my best friend. I happened to be under the weather. When he asked how I was doing, I shared that I was bummed to be feeling unwell because I was headed out of town for a fun trip. It is not like me to share when I am sick. I almost never speak of how I am feeling, especially in my body. But that day, I did. His response? “Well, you could kill yourself”. Whatever was said next, I do not know. What I do know is that my anxiety was in fact transformed. I went on to pass my exam. Somehow knowing he was a licensed therapist helped me become one, too.
A few years ago one of my daughters found her way to a therapist. I have learned to stay out of it when my people choose their people. It is oh so hard to be a therapist and hope your children find someone trustworthy. I also know I have to be open to hearing the hard things I may need to hear in order to change as needed. So I try to be quiet and calm and trust my people. But when my daughter missed an appointment one evening and the therapist did not call, text, or email, but rather immediately charged her for the full session at fifty minutes past the hour? I. Could. Not. What happened to checking on your client to see if there is an emergency? Is your client safe? So she was able to charge us for the missed session, just not willing to ensure that my daughter was okay? No. Not okay.
Then there was the time our psychiatrist screamed at me. She had worked with one of my best friends. I trusted the research and energy my friend had put into finding this professional. Neither my friend nor our families had ever been to psychiatrists. It felt big. There were diagnoses and treatment plans, medication management and lots of appointments. We kept up with it all. But the psychiatrist? Not so much. We would be running out of a medication, I would call to ask for the refill, then it would take more time for her to get back to us. I started emailing her so I could ever so gently get ahead of the refill requests. Even so, she was consistently behind refilling the prescriptions. I did not know what to do. I assumed I was missing something. Surely there was a better way to request refills that I simply did not know. One day, when I had her on the phone, I asked about the best method for refills. That is when everything changed. I heard her voice raise a couple shrill octaves and her literal scream caused me to instinctively pull the phone from my ear. I was shocked. Horrified. Our family’s first taste of psychiatry.
There is something about fighting with a professional. What is happening here? Why are we not collaborating? Is this not my body? My heart? My brain? My soul? My voice? My choice? Me??
I was three months pregnant with our first baby. I was having one of my first appointments with an OB. Because of some previous issues, he informed me that he would need to perform a biopsy. Years before, I had the same biopsy and knew how invasive it was. I told him I would not be having a biopsy while I was pregnant. “Yes, you will”, he said. “No, I will not”. He then proceeded to argue with me while I was in a hospital gown, on a table, feet in stirrups. I hopped off the table, threw on my clothes and walked down the hall to the Midwives. I had never been there and did not even know who or what they were. I just started walking toward their sign. I came to an open office where Theodora was sitting. She invited me in and we talked for almost an hour. I felt like I had just found home.
Theodora delivered our babies and if the universe allowed such things, she would still be delivering life and love to our family forever. She taught me how to trust my body. She spoke to me with power and compassion. I heard affection and confidence in her voice. “Precious girl, you’ve got this.” “Tell your baby she can come now”. “You had a beautiful birth, Beth”. Her guidance and presence allowed me to have sacred experiences that transcended any modicum of pain or fear transporting us to beauty and joy. I now knew the possibility of going inside my body to find my strength and wisdom. Theodora became the queen who led me to trust my body, to intuit my baby and to welcome the miracles.
My mom had just died and I needed space to write an eulogy. Our four kiddos were age seven and below so home was bustling, busy and loud. I asked Sister Adeline if I could come to the convent very early one morning. It was dark when I left and I remember Kiss’ song “Beth” coming on the radio. The morning was still dark as I drove down that long, familiar driveway to the Villa de Matel. There were those two lion statues, the circle driveway and the beautiful brick walls reminding me of holy presence and foundation. I’ll never get over looking up at Sister Adeline’s window where she was standing there waiting for me. I remember thinking, if she is really standing there, looking out for me, this is truly one of the most loving feelings I have ever felt. She was in fact standing there waiting for me. And she welcomed me to that sacred, safe place. As sad as I felt to have just lost my mom was how deeply loved I felt to have Sister Adeline there waiting to be with me. It has been sixteen years and my heart still returns to that scene.
