All this month, we at YA Outside the Lines are talking about fresh starts. While we typically draw some parallel to our writing journeys or to our work, this month, I'm going to drop the curtain and get real and talk to you about my experiences with therapy and why I decided to give it a go.
It started in 2015, and it started off horribly. I'd lost my job after 13 years of employment and a few days later, my god-father passed away. Reeling from all of that pain, I began experiencing some severe and new physical pain. An elbow. A knee. A few fingers.
My author career was at its high point. My third novel, SOME BOYS, had been published the year before and was now racking up the honors. It was named a finalist in the CLMP Firecracker Award, the Greater Detroit Booksellers' Best Award, the RWA Rita Award, and several others. I'd also found a new day job. These achievements took my mind off my pain, but only temporarily. Always temporarily.
By May, I couldn't ignore things any longer. My left hand was almost useless, with radiating pain so acute, I could feel a tap on a keyboard straight up to my ear.