Accidentally On Purpose

“Barely scratchin’ the fucking surface
You need work, you need purpose.” -JID

A while back, while aimlessly scrolling on Twitter, I read, “I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t want to go into psychology. You just need therapy.” Well, damn. I could think of some people who needed to hear that.

It’s me. I’m some people.

I wish I was good at navigating Twitter because I’d like to find and properly credit the person who stopped me in my tracks and knocked me over the head and slapped me across my face with the harsh reality that I never wanted to be in my current profession. I didn’t want to be a therapist. I simply needed to see one.

In my youth, I wanted to be an architect or a talk show host or a lawyer or a philosopher or a guitarist for The Revolution. I didn’t want to replace Wendy. I wanted to play beside her. Who wouldn’t?

I ended up becoming a teacher because it seemed like a family-friendly profession. I knew I wanted to be a mother and thought that school hours and summers off were good for women with children. Especially since I envisioned parenting alone. Talk about manifestation.

After my father died my academic and professional interests changed inexplicably. Well, the reasons are quite obvious now. Thanks to the Twitter advice column. But, at the time, grief and trauma hid the obvious from my view.

My father died and I suddenly wanted to study community counseling, addiction counseling, and social work. Similarly, following relationships with narcissistic and abusive men, I sought to be an advocate for families experiencing mental health crises and intimate partner violence.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with learning more about issues that affect you personally. And, often, people with personal experiences make the best counselors. The problem was that I was operating in this space with little awareness and even less critical discernment.

I didn’t pause to consider how I, a woman whose father didn’t survive his battle with cocaine, would feel working with others who were actively using. Nor did I think about how my own alcohol use mirrored the drug use of those I sought to help.

I was genuinely surprised and in denial when, in a class, I learned that the definition of domestic violence was applicable to both my former and then-current marriage. I was desperately looking for answers to my own problems while hiding behind my job. It wasn’t beneficial for anyone. I wasn’t beneficial.

I had two therapists call me out on my shit. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that both were Black women. Black women be knowin’. One said after I had revealed some fuckery my then-husband did, “Don’t you think that sounds a little like domestic violence?” My response? “Excuse me? You don’t think I know all about domestic violence. I. did. not. come. here. for. that. Juanita. All you need to do is fix my unrelated depression.” I was not ready for that type of deep inquiry so I ghosted her.

One of my next therapists said, “I wonder if you do this work helping women because you’re the one who needs an advocate.” What was with these people? Again, I was put off by the honest and accurate observation. She, too, got ghosted. I was a whole ass mess.

Surprise. Surprise. As it turns out I really was using my work to “fix” in others what I couldn’t fix in myself. I wanted to save people from addiction because I couldn’t save my dad. I wanted to save women from abusive relationships because I felt trapped in mine. I wanted to advocate for others because I felt no one was listening to my pleas for help. I wanted to unlock all of the secrets of psychology so I would better understand myself and my family. Even when I did good, I was not client-focused. The good was an accidental byproduct of trying to work things out in my own life. My clients deserved better.

Thankfully, my clients today, get better. My own therapy has, among other things, helped me bring a proper sense of awareness and boundary setting to my work. I’m not longer projecting and denying or practicing therapy thoughtlessly. I am, on good days, pretty good at this counseling thing. And could, if I wanted to, be great. The keywords are “if I wanted to.”

Do I want to? I no longer know. I really don’t know what I want to do for the second half of my life. At 48, I’m looking for my purpose. One that is intrinsic and not reactionary. One that I feel committed to even after I address my own wounds. A purpose that was not adopted because my daddy died or because I didn’t marry nice people or because I drank too much.

Did my life experiences lead me to what I am destined to do? Or did my life experiences distract me from what I am destined to do? What am I destined to do? What is my purpose? Why am I here? Dang. Why do I have so many unanswered questions at my big age?

Categories: : Wellness