It's 2009.
Another month. Another session.
And I'm reunited with the elephant-grey recliner.
I sink deep into the chair and cross my ankles. I often ask myself what I'm doing here. Isn't therapy reserved for 'real' problems?
At other times, I feel as if I can't live without it.
It all started when I lost my job 18 months ago. It had nothing to do the fact that I broke up with someone after eight years together. It was never about love. My perfectionist personality is the reason why I'm here.
And my rapidly deteriorating relationship with my parents is what keeps me coming back.
I am a product of my parent's conformity. Of the sacrifices they have made in order to persevere with their embittered life. From the moment I came into this world, I learnt to reconcile and normalise my family's deficiencies. And embedded deep was this expectation - or ultimatum - to suck it up.
That is the only life I know.
I never spoke out. I did what was expected of me. I made decisions that were driven by the expectations of my parents. I was never the revolutionary in my family. I never questioned or disregarded all the things that have been imposed on me. And I have been whom I thought they wanted me to be.
The truth is, I don't want to live this life anymore. And despite all these years, I know I will never be as good enough of a daughter I've tried to be.
I wonder if anyone knows what it feels like to never want to come home. To avoid conversations with their parents. Does anyone know what it's like to ball up in bed all morning just to escape the guilt trips and the hurtful words? Or to close the door on my livid mother and ring someone, in tears, and ask them to take me away from here? Has anyone ever looked wistfully at another family and wondered why things can't be like that at home?
And so, as each day passes, the grey chair beckons.
___________________________
10 years later, I'm back in the chair.
Albeit it's a different coloured chair; but the circumstances that brought me back here are the same. Except now I've got a baby and another on the way.
Therapy was there for me when I was 25 and lost my way. I thought by 35 I'd have the world on a string, but I guess that's the thing about life: things never stop changing and you never stop learning.
I could never see myself as a mother. I had zero maternal instinct. It just wasn't something I saw (nor wanted) for my future.
Then I mysteriously turned a new leaf when I turned 30. And it was like a light switch. I spent half my 20s travelling the world, getting lost in ancient cities, traversing time zones and learning dialects. It's hard to believe that continent-hopping would soon fall out of favour.
All of a sudden, I wanted nothing more than to be a mum. I don't know why or how. I guess that's the thing about life: things never stop changing and you never stop learning.
So here I am: 35 and sitting, cross-legged, on a sofa, across from a therapist with a voice that sounded like warm honey. She doesn't tell me how to feel; she merely helps make sense of why I'm feeling the way I do. Because once you understand the why, it's like a box begins to open.
You start by unpacking the layers of darkness. And you keep going until eventually, you get to the gold.
This may be who I am, but it’s not what will define me.
______
Some things remain unresolved, but I can see so clearly now the anger was my anxiety talking. After all, the need for control at all costs is in my bloodline. I couldn't accept that I didn't have the answer to everything. It gripped me like glue, until one day - after countless counselling sessions, it all became unstuck.
and then I was finally free.
I've come to realise that the box of darkness all those years ago was, in fact, a gift to my future self.
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