When I was younger, I spent a lot of time running from cystic fibrosis, and when I was diagnosed with CF-related diabetes, I ran from that too. I have always gone to a CF care center and my care team has always been amazing. But one of the main things I have learned is that no matter how much other people have tried to help me, and no matter how many resources, programs, articles, and tips are available, I couldn't benefit from them unless I really wanted to. The one thing I wish I could tell my younger self is, “It's okay to ask for and receive help.” Help like therapy.
It took me 32 years to figure out that the stigma surrounding therapy was wrong.
Going to therapy didn't mean I was weak or crazy, and going to therapy didn't mean that I didn't have an amazing family and awesome friends. Going to therapy simply meant that I was investing in my emotional health, much like I invest in my physical health.
Cystic fibrosis is a huge burden to bear. It is a whole-body, whole-mind, and whole-life burden. But that doesn't mean that it has control of your body, your mind, or your life.
I had been so used to dealing with most things alone -- my family and friend support system excluded -- that I really thought I was doing the best I could. I thought that if I had gotten through the day with a smile, I was fine. It wasn't until I had a major trauma that it really hit me. Although I don't remember a lot, I woke up and told someone to call 911. While they were on the call, I passed out and had a seizure. During the seizure, I coughed up blood -- none of which I remember. I finally became coherent when I was being placed in the ambulance.
They didn't find any major problems at the hospital, but even so, going home was not easy. That night, I had trouble going to sleep for fear of waking up, passing out, and having another seizure. The next week, I barely slept, and the lack of sleep really got to me. I needed help. I reached out to friends, family, and my care center, and although I received an outpouring of support, I was still missing a vital mind-tool to help me get through this one thing.
When my nurse coordinator mentioned therapy, I was hesitant. I told myself, and her, that I wasn't crazy (because only crazy people go to therapy?) and that I could get through this, just like I had gotten through everything else. But the truth was I couldn't get through it alone, and once I realized that, it was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
My first session felt weird. I didn't really know what to talk about or how to talk about it. After a few sessions though, I opened up about what made me come to therapy, and as the words came out I started to feel more comfortable, freer. We spend so much time at hospitals and doctors' offices taking care of our bodies, but what about our minds?
Going to therapy means letting it all out with no judgments. It means letting all of the feelings I have about every single thing in my life come out, so I can release myself from its grasp. I know what it feels like to be at war with your own body and I know what it feels like when you don't even want to live in your own skin.
Going to therapy taught me that my trauma was a way to catapult me to a better version of myself. My therapist didn't give me the tools to be able to get through it, or to be able to sleep. She pulled the tools I already had out of me by asking the right questions and then adding on to those tools. Getting help is seriously amazing. I started with sessions every week, and now I am scheduled on an as-needed basis. If I am having a bad week, or CF really gets me down, I find a tremendous amount of comfort in knowing that my therapist is there and has my back in a completely different way than my family and my friends have.
Therapy isn't magic, like a pill that took all my pain away right away. I think of it as food for my mind. I eat different foods so that I can get all the nutrients I need over time. Therapy has armed me with the tools I need so that I am more equipped to handle what life throws at me. I wasn't “fixed” or “cured” in one therapy session. Honestly, there is no such thing as “fixed” or “cured.” I am human. I make mistakes, and I fail. But the more open I became to the process, the more helpful therapy became for me.
