Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother

I used to be averse to therapy. Armed with a cursory BA in Psychology and the blistering over-confidence of youth, there was no trauma mountain I couldn’t scale. I was the Alex Honnold of mental health. Despite the vast majority of the people who’ve ever loved me encouraging me, I persisted in my steadfast refusal. Over the last few years, I’ve given up free soloing and opted for a belay. 

Therapy does not fix you. It helps you uncover why you’re broken. It’s preventative maintenance on your meat car. The road is nasty out there. And unless you change the oil and look under the hood once in a while, you gonna break down. Sometimes you’re the fuckface swerving selfishly through the HOV lane because your soul is dog shit and everything about you is ugly. And other times, you blame it on your parents.

I’ve never had a therapist I liked. Well, that’s not true. I had one that was incisive and sharp, but the telehealth app made me fill out a form every time I scheduled an appointment, so I gave that up. I’ll spend six hours straight no-lifing a pinball machine chasing a GC from a person I’ve never met, but I won’t fill out three extra questions for my mental health.  

Hold on, jotting this down for next session.

I’ve never had a therapist I liked. But it doesn’t matter. The point is to show up. Set time aside from scrolling, drinking, and devolving to look at your soul in the mirror. And let me tell you, the light in that bathroom is not flattering. But you gotta look. You gotta. There are other people on the road and you’re a goddamn liability.

It isn’t magic. It’s an oil change. Every couple weeks you gotta take your busted old clunker to the soul mechanic. And they look at you with a veiled disapproval at how disrespectful you’ve been to yourself. And you promise you’ll stop riding the brakes, and putting in shit gas, and speeding through school zones. 

Over a long enough timeline, you actually learn how to take care of your little car. It’s its kinda nice. I only hope they start giving out little “I’m sorry for parking like an asshole” business cards so you can apologize to the other cars you dinged up along the way.