I decided to take up therapy at the start of the year. Probably long overdue. There are things I couldn’t work through on my own. No doubt I’ve tried just about every ‘healing’ modality under the sun to ‘fix’ myself, but I think I just needed the quiet space of understanding from someone without feeling like I was a burden or indebted to them somehow. I needed more than a friend. I needed someone to keep me in check, who I could rely on to notice things I couldn't see from the inside, and give insight when required. Someone who could give undivided attention to me and help me focus solely on me without guilt or shame. I was in a deep existential hole, and not speaking up about it, fear of not being heard, not being understood, I was in pain, spiralling deep into the mini hell of my own sphincter clenching, tooth grinding mind.

You can’t really tell people about that kind of shit.

They gloss over it, they come on at you with advice, they sweep over your experience with denial, and load you up with should’s and shouldn’t’s (Double apostrophe? Hmm.) They try to fix you, they try to change you. They preach some spiritual peace and love dogma that drops you further into the hell of isolation, denying the reality of what you’re experiencing by being unwilling to connect emphatically with you in the suffering. They don’t see your deep need for love, your longing to be heard, and your desperation for an attempt at understanding.


A friend told me that Thich nhat hanh the Vietnamese exiled monk once said, another way to describe love could be, understanding. Why then are we as a culture so emoti