Mountains and Smaller Mountains

Clay said I sound different, that I have been describing the events of the past three years in more detail than I have in the past. I hated him for delivering that message because in conveying his thoughts to me, I feel as though he has relayed to me that I am “getting over” Chris’ death. I should tell him that’s the effect I experienced. Clay’s been pretty good in the past shouldering my displaced hatred toward him. Clay’s a rock...the soft kind of rock that other rocks bounce off of.

Therapy is a strange and mysterious phenomenon. The human mind is a strange and mysterious phenomenon. I wanted to quit going to Clay because I thought I was finished talking about my experiences. A common belief among therapists is that clients will end their treatment if they are afraid of facing pain or tapping into a memory or feeling that seems too powerful to acknowledge. As a client, myself, I feel hatred toward all therapists who may believe that notion, but that’s probably because the notion is true and as the old adage dictates, “The truth hurts.” What I mean to say is that now that I have decided to remain Clay’s client for a while, I have begun to talk with him about the most painful part of my ordeal, Chris’ actual illness, the symptoms, his pain, the deterioration of his freedom, quality of life and lastly, his very body. This aspect of my nightmare is so painful to talk about that I can already feel all of the thoughts connected to it squashing back down into the depths of my psyche where I can hide them from myself. I don’t really want to talk about those thoughts, but I need to get them out into the air. When I imagine myself telling my story to Clay I come up, once again, hating him. Poor Clay. But what can I say? I didn’t decide that he should become a therapist. I am the innocent in all of this.

Ah, now that all of my black thoughts are sufficiently suppressed, I can begin to get ready for my trek to Beth’s house today to visit with my in-laws, whom I love more than I can ever convey with mere words.

I have been reading a book entitled, Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl, a man who survived Auschwitz and not only lived to tell about the ordeal, but transformed his experience into a meaningful manifesto written to deliver hope and an explanation for human suffering. In the book’s pages, I continue to find solid ground to stand on and to continue my recently reluctant march forward. There is much pain in this world, but there is beauty as well, and love, and humor, and kindness.

My heart bleeds for Victor Frankl and all others who have experienced similar horrors and I am so very thankful to people like him who share their stories, because these are the people who clearly demonstrate that horror, trauma and sadness can be overcome. My own horror pales in comparison to any death camp memoir. That thought, alone, helps me see my experience as a mountain that I can climb with relative ease.

-Shneed