I remember reading Mr. Blue's advice columns on Salon.com back when they were originally published. His words of advice always seemed helpful, but not necessarily instructive. He didn't give specifics like Dear Margo does, he was just a shoulder to lean on, acting as the parent in some cases, the friend in others, the counselor oftentimes, the patient listener most of the time.
I found out last summer that therapists can offer great advice, even if I don't want to hear it. "Maybe you just make a big deal out of things," I remember her saying to me. I almost dropped my jaw. Me? Make a big deal out of things? Never! Except... well, okay, maybe she was right, but I'm not a drama queen, I just have trouble letting go, dealing with disorder, and other fun stuff, like anxiety that leads to sleeplessness.
This summer, I'm not seeing a therapist anymore. S acts as my confidant for the kinds of things I would tell no one else, and he provides that safe emotional space where I can freak out and "it's okay." Even if he is vaguely the cause of suffering (i.e. missing him and feeling blue), he reminds me I'm where I'm supposed to be, doing what I'm supposed to be doing.
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