Monday, 31 May 2010
"Why is that?" I ask myself.
"Well", replies a more Knowing Self, "that would be because you feel overwhelmed by the things that have been said and the fact that you don't deserve anyone to hear you. Thus replying seems to acknowledge that you are worth commenting ON".
"Ahhh" says my Wondering Self. And then a small "oh".
It's not just replying either.
It's writing full stop.
In my last post, I optimistically resolved to write more in order to stop throwing mountains of cash into the dissociative void.
As you can see, THAT went well.
On the subject of therapy (and given the subheading on this blog, I guess it should be) it has been... a little bit like curling up inside a den of very hungry lions who haven't yet sniffed me out.
I realise that I am here, admitting something that feels so risky that I WINCE as I type. Is it possible that the couch, in that little cottage in the woods, has become an object of safety?
It has been a year since I began therapy, so I guess it's about time that I started to feel like I can trust that place, at least a tiny bit.
Committing that thought to 'paper' (albeit virtual paper) feels terrifying. Perhaps because I am afraid that I can't take it back when suddenly, it all becomes so unsafe again. And it does... Sometimes the lions look at me with glazed eyes which could realise me at any given moment.
It's a risk and I stay curled, very small and for the time being at least, safe.
************ Having just written this, I read back and find that what I HAVEN'T written about is what I would really LIKE to find words the for and yet, as usual, I have tiptoed around lions.
If I live long enough, one day I'll fight them **************
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
And then there are things that I fail to understand.
I ALWAYS thought I had an atrocious memory. I remember so very little about being young. Whole trips, events, months, years don't exist in my mind. Somewhere in me lies a terror filled conviction that I am in the early stages of Alzheimer's... Early onset... It seems an inescapable fate, given that it's both my long and short term memory that is an issue.
I often run upstairs to get something and by the time I'm up there, it's gone... I have conversations and stop mid sentence, unable to complete what I've been saying.
I go to ask my boss something, tap on the door, say hello and then.... then nothing. (And NO, I'm not anxious around my boss. We're good friends).
Recently, my family recalled a trip to a cousin's christening. We'd stayed the night before in a pub and I had apparently become hysterical with fear upon entering the place. Something about some drunk men in the bar...
"You must remember! You were about eleven! I was only six and I remember it!"
The nerves in my leg have all gone dead and though I watch the skin dent under their fingertips, I can't feel them pressing down on it.
That's what listening to stories of my childhood is sometimes like.
According to the woman, and to others who seem to know, my memory loss is dissociation. It's indicative of 'something'. It 'says a lot'. Really? I can't believe this. It's sounding too strange and I know, after all, that I just have a terrible memory compared to my sisters.
But I don't remember a lot of sessions either. Whole therapy sessions aren't there the next day. Someone pointed out that I pay too much to be forgetting everything. Hence my new resolve to write, despite resistance.
This post is too long but I wanted to include a song by a man I'm sure I could love (if only for his voice).
It's called In My Head and it's a question that tortures me.
Something sometimes happens in therapy where I find myself asking if anything I feel really exists... I suddenly doubt that the pain and the desperation is real... I doubt that I am even telling he truth... I don't know whether anything I feel exists in reality. I beg the woman to consider that I might be making it up... that it might all be in my head. I don't want to waste her time. I don't want her to believe me if my feelings aren't even real.
I'll leave Mr Sean Mullins to explain the rest.
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
And that little girl, THAT little girl, she needs to be starved to death.
I'm at my lowest weight in a long time today. It feels good to be in control of her.
Friday, 7 May 2010
We talked more about the girl, until the woman said that what was important, in terms of our work, was that I tried to remember the fact that I had noticed similarities between this girl and myself.
Mum: I've often wondered why... Why, when she has grown up in this family... With all this love... How....?
"My sister wasn't emotionally abused"
" I was thinking of you actually"
That's hurt my stomach. Can I tell her that? Can I tell her that what she just said hurts in my tummy? No. I can't. That sounds pathetic. It is silly and it doesn't make sense.
And I'm dazed and a little way off and I am beginning to pick up the cynic's shield because somewhere it's aching but somewhere else it's feeling like a deliberate game, playing with my emotions, kicking the ball at me when I wasn't looking...
"Huh? What is emotional abuse anyway?"
"Emotional abuse is being repeatedly hit... a little girl being thrashed in the middle of the night when she's anxious... blank blank blank
Blasted by an ice blow torch. Instantly frozen.
What? What's she saying? No more. Don't say anymore. please stop. Did I just say that bit aloud? Don't cry. Don't cry. You're ok. You're ok. Don't cry.
........"that wasn't to help you... that was out of anger... It was out of control..."
Stay calm... It's ok... What do I do with this? What am I meant to do with this?
I hear a small, strangled groan that might be a sob
I want to cough to cover the sound up.
Sudden tears on my face
"....... and we're a couple of minutes over and I realise this is a bad place to have to break... just take a few minutes...."
What do I DO with this?
She's saying something about saying the unsayable
"There are some tissues......."
She knows I'm crying.
She's asking what my weekend is like....
I'm telling her I don't know. That it's ok. That I'm ok. That I'm sorry.
And it's a blank how I get out of the room.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
It feels hard to summon the courage to write some of the things I am afraid of commiting to anything more than the very floaty space somewhere in the haziest recesses of my mind.
Often, the depression I live with day to day, lies in me, appearing dormant to all but the part of me that is a desire for self expression.
The black dog lies heavy on my chest. Always with one eye open.
"Should" isn't a great word.
I know that.
It's one of those words that most counselling types love to pounce on before suggesting 'healthier words like "would like to" or "could".
Nonetheless, as a blog about therapy, I feel that I should be making more of an effort to muster the energy, reach into the haze, muzzle the black dog and write more about it.
And so I tred lightly over the trepidation and pledge to try, even when the words are hard.