It was weird, today.
I didn’t have to go to therapy, for the first time in… a while.
I mean, there have been weeks where I didn’t go, but those were weeks in-between sessions, and I knew there was a session the week after, or another session coming up soon.
I mean, I knew I didn’t have therapy today. I know I don’t have therapy in the future.
Last Tuesday, I discharged myself. I’d been thinking about it in the week between sessions, and while we were talking, my therapist asked me what we were going to do, going forward, and I said, “I’ve been thinking about discharging myself. I don’t know what else to talk about.”
So we had a wee talk about everything we’d gone over – especially what had gone on the previous weekend, where my house and personal space was invaded by someone I thought I might have been friends with but no. No. – since I started last year, and we both came to the same conclusion.
If I kept going to therapy, I wasn’t actually going to get anywhere. It was a crutch. In a good way, but.
It meant that I felt safe. I knew I had therapy there, the next week, so I wouldn’t ever step out of my comfort zone.
So I discharged myself, and kept Dr. Walton’s voice permanently ingrained in my head, in the same way as I can still hear Jillian Michaels screaming at me (but I mostly just ignore her right now, even although I know I shouldn’t!) to exercise, get my butt off the seat, etc, so that if I do something I know she’d question, I’d hear it in her voice, and I’d ask myself the questions that I know she’d have asked me the next week.
Why did you buy all of those crisps/cakes/sweets? – Boredom. Loneliness. I felt like shit. Not because I was hungry.
Why didn’t you leave the house today? – Boredom. I felt like shit. I was lonely, ironically, but I didn’t want to talk to anyway, because I felt like shit.
Why did you feel like shit?
And so it goes.
I have to start asking myself these questions, and I have to do it without my safety net. It’s been amazing, going to therapy with a therapist who actually listens and cuts through the bullshit. The last time I went to talk therapy, the doctor just sat there and listened, never asked a question, and eventually tried to pin all of my problems on the fact that I wanted to have sex realignment surgery when I was a kid. (Yay, things you probably never wanted to know about me!)
But no, Dr. Walton actually listened, and cut through the bullshit, and forced me to do things I wasn’t comfortable with, like looking her in the eyes when I was talking to her. I wouldn’t look her in the eyes when I was talking to her, at first, and by the end, the only reason I wouldn’t look her in the eyes was if I was crying.
When I was about to leave, we got onto the topic of finding ourselves, and how I’ve never particularly known who I am – there’s always been this undercurrent of, “I’ve survived years of physical and mental abuse, and then spent years doing the same thing to myself. Now what?” and putting a mask of, “I’M FINE I’M FINE I’M FINE EVERYTHING’S FINE,” and not letting anyone seeing me break down (unless it’s at a movie because that’s not REAL LIFE and it doesn’t reflect on me badly; it just makes me a big softy) and Dr. Walton said something like, finding out who we are means filling ourselves up with things, and the things we fill up can be anything – cups, vases, glasses. Anything.
My immediate reaction?
© cbckchristine (Used with… permission? I purchased the M size on Fotolia.)
Yes, I am a swimming pool.
I am deep (ha! So cheesy, but that was Suzanne who said that, not me!), and fun, and interesting, and comforting, and all manner of things that I can’t remember right now. But I also mentioned that right now, my pool’s empty. The second I step out of the door of the therapy room, I’m an empty vessel. I need to learn how to be me, starting from the very start.
Literally dipping my toe in at the shallow end. None of this jumping in at the deep end business.
It was all very metaphoric and…
So. I left. Discharged, and finished with therapy, at least for the timebeing, unless I get sectioned for being a nutcase in the future or something.
I’ve already got plans to go into the local knitting club in the library. There’s apparently a choir, too.
And I’m just going to try… to be me.
Whoever that is.
I’m sure she’s pretty awesome.