Let go, let Bertha

I'm happy that my oldest friend is finally back in therapy. She telehealthes with Bertha weekly. Bertha is a license clinical social worker, and that makes me even happier because it means she doesn't have a prescription pad. My friend believes, I feel, too strongly in living better through chemistry.

At first I saw real progress in her attitude and approach to the challenges in her life. She actually admitted that when she left Chicagoland, it was really not because (as she repeatedly complained) it snows and it's flat and it gets dark too early. No, it was because she was disappointed in love (again) and depressed and, instead of looking within, she ran away. Way to go, Bertha! Now if only she could apply that sound logic to her repeated desire to move back here. The problem is not her location, obviously, it's the way she approaches her life.

Saturday night we (my friend and I, not Bertha and I) talked for a couple hours. I was less positive than I'd been. My friend isn't feeling well and she still hasn't ironed out her healthcare because it's too hard to deal with the bureaucracy. Since she can't afford insulin she's taking someone else's and guessing at the dosage. She started to talk about her on-again-off-again relationship with her landlord, but stopped herself, saying, "You'll just yell at me again." I asked her if she was still consulting Bertha regularly and she gave me an enthusiastic yes.

I was relieved. Bertha is licensed. She has 20 years experience. Therapy is a process, not an event, and both my friend and Bertha understand this.

I've known my friend since Kindergarten. Her life began to go off the rails 15 years old and I'm tired. Exhausted with trying to keep up with the mood swings and the self-destruction. But I don't have to anymore.

We have Bertha, and I'm so very grateful.

Photo by Zulfugar Karimov on Unsplash