Have you ever pissed off your therapist? I have.
Today was the day. My therapist looked me dead in the eye and said, “You frustrate the hell out of me. Stop hiding who you are!”
Because I do. I know, I blog every day and I have a podcast and I am active on social networking and I (sometimes) share my art. But I spend a lot of energy and time hiding my creative writing, and not being seen in public (if I can help it at all). I dribble out little pieces of my creativity here and there in hopes that it is enough to make me genuine while not enough to make me a target. I play it safe.
But today was the limit for her, with me going on and on about feeling helpless and scared. I don’t want to give the impression that she was being unprofessional, because she’s a fantastic therapist! But she’s also not one to pull punches, which personally I need. In the past, if I’ve questioned why she asked a certain question or said a certain thing (I do this a lot), she’s always been forthright with me. We laugh a lot because, honestly, personal hang ups can be damn hysterical at times. She’s never been anything but professional and compassionate on those days when I’m all tears and no momentum.
So I think maybe she’s been planning this? Or thinking maybe it’s something I need to hear? She’s sneaky smart like that, I would believe it.
Whatever the case may be, she’s over waiting for me to bloom. She’s giving me homework that involves unfurling my potential in ways
It’s a terrifying thought.
It would mean finishing Wolves of Harmony Heights and publishing it. It would been getting on the NaNoWriMo train for Wolves of Boston. It would mean working to finish two other [secret] projects I’ve been holding hostage with my insecurities.
It means the end of being spineless, of skittering away from the light out fear of being burned.
Hell yeah I’m scared. But my therapist was right, as always: it’s time.
