Picture a knot. A large ball of heavy rope, rotted and fraying, swollen by moisture and mildew, but dried by the baking sun, bonded together from years of misguided attempts to unwind it. Now, hold that picture in your mind.

“You don’t need a padded room. You just need to sit with her.”

That is what my therapist told me after a session laced with the most challenging drugs for me to swallow: shame, embarrassment, rage, and grief. “You” is me in that sentence, and “her” is the 25-year-old version of me.

I walked out of my therapist’s office filled with emotions that I hadn’t expressed. In fact, the feelings were slowly knotting into a rope of discomfort inside of me, weaving into a tight ball that I will eventually have to give up on.

Eventually. It hasn’t happened yet. It has before, though. And what did it look like before?

If I couldn’t self-harm, I would throw things, kick and punch holes in walls, slam my body against furniture, and scream unintelligible words. And if I could self-harm? Well, it makes sense that the place I would go was the bathroom. I would sit in front of the toilet feeling the need to purge – and not my food. You see, I had that rope knot inside of me, and I couldn’t live with it. It was making me feel awful. So, one cut was the start of a purge…peeling a piece of rope away from the rest. It was both an attempt to feel something, anything, and an attempt to numb the rest. It worked, but only for brief moments at a time. It was an awful cycle.

I can’t go back to that. I can’t hold that knot in my gut. I can’t sit in front of the toilet hoping to purge vague, forgotten feelings. Sit with her.

I am sitting on my couch at home, feeling simple overhand knots begin weaving inside of me. It won’t be long before I lose the trust that 25-year-old had in me. A flash of memory stabs me, and I immediately and reflexively slam my eyes shut, tense my muscles, and violently shake my head as if to ward off that thought. That was outright rejection, and a more complex knot forms. Sit with her.

My dog ate her dinner, chomped on a chicken foot, ate the cat’s dinner, attempted to eat the cat, barked and jumped on me at the recognition of any sound in the neighborhood, and is now throwing a loud temper tantrum as I eat a bagel that I refuse to share with her. Knots are forming faster than I can consider unraveling them. I am angry, anxious, and yelling at the dog. This is displaced; my dog is merely reacting to the impatient detachment I exude. Sit with her.

With intention, I stand from the table, place my plate in the sink (the dishwasher is full of clean dishes), and pull clean clothes from my dresser. I hate showers. But where else can one wash everything away? The dirt and grime of the day, the sweat from heat and activity, the pain, grief, and disappointment, the shame, guilt, and embarrassment.

It takes a moment to undress and turn on the shower. Again, I hate showers. But I eventually perform the rote steps and find myself standing under a scalding hot rain shower. Soap lathers on my skin while my mind wanders to her. At least 60 seconds pass before I realize I am mouthing something. What am I saying?

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m so sorry.“

“I’m so sorry.“

I turn off the cold water altogether, stop the drain, and sit in the near boiling water. I can’t stand any longer, and she needs to know I’m staying for this. I can’t feel the hot tears, but I can feel the burn in my eyes, squeezing tension in my neck, and acid in my throat. “I’m so sorry.” The phrase dislodges something this time, and the rope twists free. I’m vomiting, not digested food but sorrow and anger, grief and rage, confusion and chaos. It’s all coming out. The ugly cry. Snot and tears flow freely, convulsions wrack my body, guttural sounds escape my mouth.

Ice is piercing my flesh, so I reach and shut off the water. So much emotion remains. I feel pained. That was only a pressure valve. I sat with her. Keep sitting with her.