When it comes to father wounds, the actions and deeds of a father can attach themselves to the soul of a woman for her entire lifetime. They have the potential to suck the lifeblood out of her completely, leaving her just a shell of the woman she was intended to be. Periodically, the wounds haunt her like a recurring nightmare, or without warning they set off reactions in her brain and she may find herself blindsided by raw emotions: anger, depression, and grief.<\/p>\n
While sitting in a therapy session, this very thing transpired. Not in me\u2014in my counselor. We were separated by a large wooden desk that served as a reminder of the invisible client-counselor boundaries governing our relationship.<\/p>\n
Monthly, I paid her so I could pour out my woes like water from a broken faucet. And no matter how devastating my personal accounts were, there was always an emotional barricade\u2014and that desk\u2014between us. She never showed feelings on either end of the continuum, which was fine; I was paying her not to.<\/p>\n
On this particular visit I was tackling the subject of my father wounds. \u201cI want to go out on a daddy-daughter date,\u201d I said. \u201cI want to be daddy\u2019s little girl. How can God do that?\u201d At the conclusion of my rant, I watched in amazement as my Christian counselor morphed into a daddy-wounded peer right before my eyes. My words must have triggered an undisclosed place in her heart, because she bulldozed right through the emotional and professional blockades she had erected. Her eyes filled with tears, her cheeks flushed, and she sniffled.<\/p>\n
Before I knew it, she was engaged in a full-blown ugly cry, dabbing and wiping her face like it was her session and not mine. What in the world is happening? I thought but didn\u2019t say. Here I was, staring at all of her accolades and accomplishments affixed to the wall, distinguishing her as someone certified to help me overcome my father wounds, and yet she was still dealing with some of her own. I almost got up and bypassed the wooden desk so I could hand her some Kleenex and attempt to console her. I opted not to, committed to the client-counselor boundaries that separated us.<\/p>\n\n\t\t