Today I saw my psychiatrist, and the wonderful thing about my psychiatrist is the relationship that I have with her. I made an appointment with her probably six years ago now. I did research, looking for the type of doctor that I wanted because I had such a traumatic experience with medication in the past.

Her practice is just her. She left the larger, more “big pharma” type of practice because she felt they were over-medicating. Rather than listening to a person and what’s going on in their lives, they generally just upped the dosage or changed the medication before sending their patients on their way.

She talks to her patients. She asks them what’s going on in their lives and takes external factors into consideration when prescribing medication. Rather than looking at how you rank on a test that determines your diagnosis, she looks at your environment, your sleep patterns, your relationships, your lifestyle – I could be wrong, but I feel like she’s a rare find. I can text her when I don’t feel like I’m doing well, and she checks up on me if she hasn’t heard from me in between appointments.

I guess our relationship doesn’t really have much to do with the reason for this post or the topic that I wanted to touch on, but she’s worth mentioning, and I suppose it gives a little context. She’s not a therapist – I’ve been to them too – but she’s educated enough to provide some coping skills, books to read, insight, and she definitely listens to me like a good friend. And being the good friend that she is, she definitely gives me the hard truths that I don’t always want to hear, ha!

Anyway.

I updated her on my life. Told her about the status of my divorce, how the kids were doing, how I was liking my job, and whether I had anyone special in my life. And then I updated her on what I planned to do next, what I going to do to continue moving forward.

See, I’m a crier. I can’t help it. I feel very deeply, and sometimes it catches me off guard. It’s like something strikes the right cord to pull up something suppressed or overly sensitive, and I find myself choking back tears. Surprised and annoyed, reflective and surmised.

I was telling her that I updated my resume. Telling her that I need to make more money and that I need to do that sooner rather than later. I told her that, while looking over my resume, I realized I have quite a few skills now. Functional, valuable, applicable skills that I didn’t quite see before. Then, as I told her my other realization, I choked up between the two words.

“I’m smart”

……

I didn’t plan to say it. I was just listing the insights and things I learned by looking at my professional life typed up on a piece of paper.

I finally realized that I’m smart.
And now I’m realizing that I’ve never truly thought that about myself.

I’m not smart.

I’m impulsive.
I’m destructive.
I’m emotionally intelligent.
I’m fun.
I’m bouncy and cheery and full of smiles.

But not smart.

Smart people don’t have the issues that I have.
Smart people haven’t made the decisions that I’ve made in my past.
Smart people don’t behave the way that I behaved in my younger years.

Smart people aren’t like me, and I’m not like them.

Through the lump in my throat, I said it two more times.

“I’m smart”
“I’m smart”

And because I’m emotionally intelligent, I know that I was convincing myself and not her.

……

And as I type this, I find myself choked up again with tears rimming my eyes. It’s from a place of deep sadness at the realization that I haven’t thought of myself that way before- that I dismissed that trait completely.
It’s from being overwhelmed at finally seeing something about myself that simply wasn’t true – like some sort of miracle or epiphany has happened.

Thirty-seven years old and never having thought of myself as smart. As intelligent.

…….

It’s such a shame. But in a strange way a blessing because I’ve unlocked a new door now. A door to possibilities that I would have never considered because those possibilities were for smart people, and I’m not one of the smart people.

Until now.
Until right now.

“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change” – Carl Rogers