F.I.N.E.

©TRT….FINE61624

     F. I. N. E.

She sat in the circle, her sunglasses and hat covering most of her face. Her makeup and outfit were impeccable. With her mind racing, she sat as still as possible using all her energy to shield any discomfort. Life has the woman taught many lessons, she whispered ‘Guard your heart!’. Something was different today.

“If any of you are wearing sunglasses or hats, please remove them,” the group counselor asked before the session began.

She was the sole person in the group wearing sunglasses and a hat, starkly contrasting with the others. The counselor's request did not affect her, and she ignored it. She was Defiant, Resistant, and with a Chip on Her Shoulder.

Each group member took turns sharing why they participated in this counseling session. She listened but did not hear, and her mind whirled in a different direction. “Why am I here? She asked herself. “Why can’t I stop crying? She wondered. “When will it end?” She cried to herself. She checked into this program because she couldn’t stop crying at work.

Finally, it was her turn to share her feelings.

“I’m fine,” she stated firmly. Again, she said, “I’m just fine!” Her nose was red from blowing it, and her eyes were swollen . . . but she insisted, “I’m fine.”

Someone in the group laughed. A man blurted out, “Of course we all are fine! He explained. “We are all F.I.N.E. Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. Just F.I.N.E.!”

This statement made her laugh.

Slowly, as each day passed, the layers of denial peeled off the recovering patients in the ‘Grief Unit’ of the local behavioral health hospital.

A tragic death and major disappointments over her lifetime helped to produce a significantly hardened emotional scab in her psyche. The goal is to chip it away slowly.

Her sunglasses and floppy hat have also become her constant decoys and camouflage. She wanted to be invisible.

With time, she has opted to be here in the hope of eliminating the need to hide behind denial, sunglasses, or other ways to conceal her feelings. Her wish to be free and open has a long history. The best she can do today is sit in the circle of others, reluctantly traveling the same path.

Another participant jokes about the definition of denial. “‘De nial’ is not a river in Eygpt! It’s real. It hurts, stops us from growing and living life fully.”

She wonders, “Am I in denial?”  

Each day, she feels a little freer with her emotions and self. Her body language is changing, too. As she checks in for the group therapy sessions, she leaves her sunglasses and hat in her purse.

Slowly, her world is turning from a dark, rigid gray and ice-cold to a lukewarm.

The color she sees more and more is pink. Pink is the spiritual color of love. Interestingly, she has always hated the color pink. Now, it’s a welcome sight. “Maybe I’ll sell Mary Kay Cosmetics and drive a pink Cadillac!”

Gradually, letting go of things she could never control and recognizing her inability to chart others' courses allows her to develop a new and foreign understanding of her life.

The days pass. The hospitalization time for dealing with denial and unknown feelings is coming to an end. Learning how to navigate or compartmentalize situations properly is becoming manageable.  

And still, something needs to be added.

Just as the patient began recovering in bursts, her mother—the person who taught denial the best because she knew the dance—was ready to intervene.

“Mother!” the 39 year-old-patient gasps. “Why are you here?”

“I’m taking you out of this looney-bin place. You will come home with me. I’ll feed you good food. You can relax and get back to being your normal self. Get packed!” How her mother got past the front desk is not known. The patient begins to shiver, cry, and physically wither. Her strength is evaporating. She longed for her sunglasses. 

Finally, somebody escorted her mother firmly out of the counseling room. All the patients and therapists witnessed the insane behavior she endured for decades.

“We are here for you. You will not be subjected to this type of behavior again,” the therapist advised.

Escorted back to her room, the woman cried non-stop for days. Years of negative emotions have erupted into streams of tears. Grief for her lost childhood and twisted upbringing because of her mother’s denial was finally being expressed.

“There is much to do,” the patient confessed in the group session.

She wondered out loud, “Will I be able to undo the past enough to be the person I can be? 

“The reality feels overwhelming and freeing at the same time.”

How does one start over? How do we escape our old worlds and start afresh? Once denial is recognized, how is it handled day by day?

Recognizing the crippling effects of a life formed by denial is the beginning of recovering oneself.

She concluded that healing from denial is like surviving a terrible flood. Repairing the damage to a house takes time, effort, and endurance. The burned, water-soaked wood, furnishings, and belongings are thrown out. They, like bad habits, are unnecessary.

The structure needing repair must to be cleaned deeply, scraped, sanded, and painted. This process takes time, energy, and endurance.  Cleaning up her emotional past will take much effort too. And, the results will last a lifetime!

She realized that time takes time. A daily program to keep her on track, along with group support and changing from the inside out a day at a time, has become her goal—a major remodel planned!

She walked out of the facility thirty days after entering with a bounce in her step, no hat or sunglasses.

Her smile and demeanor brightened whenever someone at work remarked, “You’ve changed!”

Yes, denial hides the radiant person we are. Its burdensome weight bends our backs emotionally. The freedom to choose the little differences that makeup who we are is a gift a person can only give themselves.

The woman who began this journey forty years ago knows who she is today. However, she occasionally slips back to old childhood habits when she is too tired, too hungry, or too lonely.  

Wearing feelings on her sleeves is a thing of the past. Nor is she an iceberg, either.