I told myself last night I was about to level up and I was right. Today delivered right on schedule.

I broke down after class in front of the psychiatrist. I can’t cry when I want to, so to cry when I wasn’t expecting it caught me off guard. They were the type of tears that feel like me, like they belong to me. A coming home.

The class was uplifting. I was confused why I kept dissociating throughout it, and hard too. Not once or twice, but consistently, I was checking out. I had very limited control.

I didn’t want to stay after class, but something in me made me stay. I grew impatient in the 15 minutes it took for the psychiatrist to go around to the other students. I considered pressing ‘close’ to the Zoom window. Again, something in me made me stay.

We dissected the class. I was asked questions about what was happening before the class, what could have led to this feeling.

I explained I had been under a lot of stress in the lead up. Maybe in the last two weeks I had been very diligent about ticking off my Financial Health Goals checklist. I have not done much damage, despite all my effort. I said that I thought I would have been rewarded for my efforts and instead I kept getting swift returns, cutting me down to my knees each time.

This class is about building resilience, so this just shows me how much I need it.

Confirmation I needed to stay back after class came in the form of tears rolling down my face. It was as though they woke me up to the realisation I was not in my bodyI was dissociating so hard I hadn’t realised I was even crying. Then came the realisation of my memory being wiped during this period. I tried my hardest to work out what had been discussed during this time. I looked down at my notes. No clues there.

I went back to the notes from the class. The last few pages didn’t reveal any cause for the tears. I went back another page.

‘Rejection Therapy’.

I still wasn’t getting it. I had admitted to another student in our previous breakout session that the last class was very difficult for me. Self-compassion was apparently harder for me that anything I have already faced. Love is my kryptonite. How? Well, I know how. A story for another day. I had realised by doing the homework and reflecting on my progress, or lack of progress, that I am afraid to take up space. So much so I do not ask to press pause when watching something if I need to go to the bathroom. I don’t want to disturb the peace, even though this is a perfectly reasonable request.

Through the questioning, we got down to the reason for the tears:

Rejection.

My mind didn’t read past that first word of rejection therapy. It hooked onto the clue and off it went without me.

One thing after the next lately. I shared something deeply personal with the doctor and the tears broke from behind the dam. I am not ready to share this yet, I am sorry.

I stifled the tears as best I know how, afraid of how I would look in front of a professional. Stuffed them down like I usually do, for a time that suits me better. An automated response. A time that never actually comes.

Why do I do this? Why am I so deeply ashamed of crying? Even in my own presence I am ashamed of them.

After the call, I wanted to cancel my plans for yoga in the park. This would have been a point for my rejection therapy homework. I didn’t cancel. I wanted to show up for myself. I wanted to get back in my body, and having an instructor and being surrounded by people would force me to take action. It was worth my effort to get there.

I didn’t share with the doctor that my neighbour died last night. Those are different tears.

Lots of love,

Kate