Anyone who has read my book knows my therapist is named Heidi. I’ve worked through so much trauma with her in the past 7.5 years. I texted her from the beach while paramedics worked on Lee. I was sitting outside her office when my literary agent offered representation.
We don’t agree on everything, but that’s not what therapy is about. I trust her.
So when we had major conflict with feelings hurt on both sides, it was a rarity. To try to work through it all, I asked for us to communicate in writing because verbal expression is harder for me. Written communication failed, though, because I thought I was trying to understand her while she found my words to seem harsh and even mean, intentionally so. Long story short, I realized we weren’t speaking the same language. (I use this analogy in my post about being diagnosed as autistic at almost 40.)
I realized I might be autistic before the next therapy session.
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