Following on from the Making no sense post about details not making sense.
Think about it… that’s rope in the picture to the right. I know, I know, it’s obviously rope. So tell me, is it one rope? Small lengths? Attached to something? Ready to use? A tangled mess? Without the big picture the details don’t really make sense. Yeah! Gotcha!
Now the reason my mind has been travelling this thought trail is that I’ve been struggling a little the last few weeks. Okay, we all know that. There’s something from that therapy session I don’t remember talking about, you remember the one where I went into the whole I’m a teapot! panic about men?
She asked me if I thought therapy was helping me. She then explained that she thought I had good sense, that I lacked confidence only. That I’d stopped trusting my judgement… and maybe therapy isn’t what I need. What I needed was girlfriends, you know the have coffee and put it all out type girlfriends?
Admittedly, she said all that before the men thing happened. She adjusted her thinking after that.
It’s something that has bothered me since that session. Why would she think I’m not so screwed up? Am I okay? Is it just confidence? I thought it’s kind of obvious I’m not okay. But then I realised. I have these mini-meltdowns between sessions and pull out of them before I go. It’s over, so they usually don’t get brought up. Certain situations do, such as that with my son and his girlfriend, but mostly, they’re gone so they’re glossed over.
I haven’t really been talking about my meltdowns with her. I sit here and I wonder… will I tell her about the two separate days since our last session that I walked around with a razor blade, fighting that compulsion? Will I tell her about crying myself to sleep repeatedly? I should. But, I pass the crisis each time, it’s over. Are there things that maybe I should have talked about but didn’t? You bet your sweet ass there are.
That’s where the problem exists. She doesn’t have the full picture. Just some details. A few rough spots doesn’t describe my state of mind while I imagine the blood flowing from self harm. A bad day doesn’t describe the physical ache of wishing I was dead.
So why do I do this? It’s not about the whole “Don’t talk” thing from my past, as that doesn’t exist with my therapist. It’s not worry about being a pain, that’s part of what she’s there for. I don’t feel embarrassed about things when I talk with her. Certain pieces of the puzzle fell into place reading another blog and Carleen spoke about being a pleaser. Oh. I think I see what I’m doing. I want to please her. Mari, the A grade student from way back, is trying to do well with her therapist. Impress at all costs.
Yes, maybe. I’m pretty good at telling myself lies, or at least avoiding the truth of why I do or don’t do things. I justify behaviours in my mind. So we’ll just need to wait and see if this does turn out to be a little lightbulb revelation or if it’s another way I’m avoiding truth.
Either way, it gives me a plan of action. Besides working on the whole accepting that my imperfection is okay, I need to walk into the next session and tell her… the rough spots were really bloody rough. Well, not literally bloody. Still, I’m not doing as well as I’d like you to believe.
We’ll see how things go then. Next week, as she’s been away. Three weeks has gone sooo slowly.