My Greatest Fear

 My greatest fear is vulnerability.

Therapy: Tick…Tick…Tick… The small clock on the end table next to me made that annoying  sound indicating that time was passing.  It is a reminder that each second costs 0.036 cents to tell someone my troubles.  Rather, the cost to sit in silence while I muster the courage to spill out my deepest experiences and secrets that I have kept in a tomb deep inside my core for years.  With each tick my level of resentment and frustration seem to creep up toward a simmer which will inevitably explode into a rolling boil before the fifty minute hour is over.  My hands find one another during this silence so my thumbs can rub the nail on one another as I try to divert from her eyes which are staring holes into my forehead.  The woman I pay $110.00 an hour, that is if you can call fifty minutes an “hour”, to listen to me repeat each week the things I wrestle with. I am selfish.  I am afraid, I am unwilling to give in, to compromise or to let go.  Who even knows what it means to “let go”? 

So, the clock continues to tick its money meter and I am only three minutes into the session.  In an effort to ditch the things I really need to discuss in therapy I instead say, “This is the first time I sat in the waiting room with other people out there.  I didn’t like it.”  (My thinking here is that I can lead her astray and we can talk about something that was bothersome, but nothing that is unbearable like all of the deep secrets I have.) She has seen all of my patterns of behavior during previous sessions.  She knows this is what I do, whether subconsciously or with intent, and gives it no attention.  Instead she nods and stares at me, waiting for me to initiate a conversation that really matters. I hate that about her.

 Inside I feel a lump welling in my throat.  I know the reason I sought out therapy was to finally be free of the things that have me chained in this mental prison.  I need to just dump out the stories of my recent and long ago past that are haunting me.  So, why do I sit in silence playing these games that cost .036 cents per second?  I now know it is because I am afraid she will judge me.  I am afraid there won’t be acceptance or worse that the acceptance will be artificial because of the role she plays.  She is, after all, a counselor.  Counselors have to remain neutral in the service they provide or they would be rendered unethical. Wouldn't they?  

So, the real challenge becomes figuring out if she is demonstrating real concern and care or if it is manufactured.  I spend at least two thirds of my “hour” trying to take her pulse to see how we are relating so that if, some day, I wanted to tell her the deepest secrets I’d know with crystal clear certainty that she would genuinely care.  I have no proof that she doesn’t.  I lack trust. My issue with trust isn’t just with her.  It is with.... well…everyone.  If you fail me once you are cut off from the hope of ever being trusted again.  The pitfall with this rigorous standard is that everyone fails you at least once. 

That lump I mentioned earlier grows.  It feels like a kidney stone does when you are passing it, only as if it is the size of a golf ball and it’s in my neck.  With much regret I feel my eyes get heavy and my vision starts to cloud.  A single tear rolls down my cheek, then another.  The stream begins and I sit there staring at the floor and the wall.  I can’t look at her.  I can only imagine what she might be thinking.  I imagine she is thinking that this man who stands 6’6” tall and weighs in at 240 pounds is a big fat cry baby.  Though this is the first time I have cried in front of her in the six months I have been coming to her office, I am sure her impression is one of weakness and femininity.  My lip quivers and I stare aimlessly in every direction that she isn’t. She offers the following, “You look sad.”  I say nothing and only nod for fear that I’ll explode into a full-on sob.  (Boys don't cry and certainly men don't  Well, that would only have merit if I were a real man.)

There is more silence as the tears continue to roll and drip off of my chin onto my hands, which are oddly enough still examining each other’s nails.  I’m there at a jumping off point where it would make such wise sense to leap into my past and my secrets. Pour them out for her on the coffee table that is between my seat on the chesterfield and her seat in a rich red leather chair.  Instead I swallow, allow more tears to flow and sit in silence hoping to bring this display of unwelcome emotion to a close.  With time it does.  I manage to regain control of this perceived sign of weakness. I able to stomp the secrets back down.  "This is a good thing," I tell myself because they almost lept out in my moment of weakness. 

I glance over at the clock and calculate that I have nine minutes left of my fifty-minute “hour”.  I have been a certified pro at avoiding the truth and shutting others out for thirty-seven years.  There is no doubt that I can muster another nine minutes of those same skills right here, right now….and so I do.

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This post comes from an ongoing discussion about vulnerability that I have had with a few friends and with this counselor. (Practicing being vulnerable telling you that) Apparently, Those who want to experience peace need to allow themselves to feel vulnerable. That vulnerability may be in front of God, your spouse, significant other, strangers, friends or even your kids.  Whomever or whatever you believe, I am just learning that the truth is that only when you are vulnerable are you able to receive and tap into your most creative energy.  (I know, I could puke, this sounds very sappy and existential.  I suppose it is, especially if you aren’t able or willing to be vulnerable like I am not.)  I hate vulnerability.  It is a curse, or so I thought, until I began letting myself taste what it is like to be vulnerable. – Oh, don't worry..... I have only allowed myself to sip the poison.  With time comes ease, or so I am told.