Therapy #3

Therapy session number three… I got on a bus and I went. Again, we sat in silence for a few minutes before beginning the session. 

The first question she asked me was what were my experiences with love. A tough question in my opinion, especially when I’m not even sure what love is. I explained a bit about my parents relationship. They got married, moved to Japan, had me, moved back again and had two more kids before deciding that they didn’t love each other but never divorced. They live under the same roof, barely speaking, separate bedrooms and separate lives. 

I guess when I was younger I thought that maybe they stayed together for mine and my brother and sister’s sake, now I’m not too sure. Now I think they just fell into the comfort of knowing that somebody else was in the house, especially when we all went off to college. None of us really speak to my father amymore, a hello there or a do you need the car today? That’s pretty much it. 

I explained to her how my relationship with my father was kind of like my first disappointment in love. I know it’s not a romantic love but it’s still love isn’t it? 

Or at least it’s supposed to be. 

I explained that from a young ages, listening to friends talking: “my daddy done…” and “me and my daddy…”, I never had anything to contribute. I went further and explained that I understood that from my point of view not only did we have a generation gap to bridge but we also had a huge cultural gap to build and in a way a language barrier set before is before we could being to bridge the rest. 

I think she seemed surprised that I’d given it so much thought. That’s what I do though, I sit around with my thoughts a lot. 

I admitted that I’d grown tired of the constant feeling of disappointment I’d receive from him and that I’d given up trying to come to an understanding. I’d never admitted it out loud, not with verbal words, that I could hear.

You know how sometimes you think aloud or say something out loud and realise it’s wrong as soon as you hear the words? 

This wasn’t one of those times. 

When I heard the words, I knew what I was saying was correct. 

I don’t know how much my relationship with my father has influenced me as a person. I do know that a combination of my relationship with my father and the string of bad relationships has made it hard for me to trust men. I also know that seeing my parents relationship growing up, the strain it took on our family and where I am now in life, it’s made me want a family and a lasting, meaningful relationship. Something real and picturesque. I’m willing to fight for it and put in the effort, I’m not expecting it to just happen but I know that’s what I want.

I need to just figure out if this is the man who I can do it with. I want it to be him, so much. 

Therapy #2

My thoughts and feelings about my second therapy session.

My second therapy session was four days ago and I haven’t been able to write about it because I feel like I’m bad at therapy.

How can you be bad at therapy? 

Before I went in, I was skimming over the notice boards in the waiting area as a way of distracting myself. It kept me from running out the door back onto the street. They had stuck up helpline numbers for people with drug abuse, parents who had lost children, people with eating disorders, HIV sufferers and children who suffered in abusive families growing up. These numbers and leaflets had been put up as an aid for people in need to use, call when they were feeling low and get the help when they desired. I read all of them, every single one. Half way through reading them all, I realised they would have no leaflet that would be applicable to me. 

I don’t suffer from any of those things. 

I’m just miserable. 

After this I felt like my “problems” were irrelevant because there’s no helpline for people who just feel shit about themselves for no reason. I can’t pinpoint a traumatic experience that I can blame my problems on. 

I sat in silence for the first five or ten minutes of the session, trying to steady my breath and staring at the small clock. 

We started talking about my upbringing as a child and again, what can I say, I don’t think I’ve had a bad childhood but I’m not even sure about that anymore. My parents had their problems and difficulties when I was growing up but nothing too bad. My mom drank, probably more than she should have. My dad worked a lot and spent most of the day out of but my mom made up for that, in her own way where she could and that’s a normal family. 

My dad was strict, especially on me and my sister, less so on my brother and I don’t know if it’s because he is younger and my dad got more complacent or if it’s because he was a boy and he didn’t feel the need to be as strict with him. I will probably never know the answer. 

I’ve agreed to keep going to the counselling.

After all, what have I got to lose? I can’t give up because what do I have left if I do? 

-A

Therapy #1

Why do I feel like I’m actually more of a lost cause after that? 

  • Where do your problems lie do you think?
  • Are you unhappy?
  • Why are you unhappy?
  • Have you had suicidal thoughts?
  • Have you tried to harm yourself?
  • What do you hope to get out of your sessions? 
  • Do you have dependency issues?

What the hell? 

What am I supposed to answer? 

Mumbling yes and no every so often because it was all I could manage. God, I feel so hopeless. I can’t even bring myself to admit why I’m feeling so fucking shit to somebody who is by their very profession not allowed to tell anybody else. 

I know why I’m unhappy. I’m unhappy because life isn’t going how I thought it would go. I’m unhappy because everybody has ups and downs but I can’t seem to handle my downs. I let them consume me and take over my life. I let them drown me until I can’t hear or see what’s really going on around me. 

I shit you not, there’s a lady with a beard unravelling a knitted scarf and winding back up the ball of wool. Nobody is paying her any attention as if it’s the most normal thing in the world but I’m consumed with fear that I will be that lady. I will end up alone forever and never find happiness with somebody.  

I out every thing I have into my relationship, trying to make a family and home for us. Dreaming of creating a future together, hoping beyond everything he felt it too. I wasn’t good enough. His fantasies were about my best friend, my cousin, my sister… He wanted them but not me. I feel disgusting. He made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t deserve to be happy.  

Why can I not say that out loud? 

Why am I so embarrassed by the fact I got caught up in his lies and deceit? 

Why of all people did I have to fall for it? It was all bullshit… I think it was all bullshit. I’m not even strong enough to walk away because I keep going back for more lies, more hurt, more abuse. I hate that I love him so much and I hate that I can’t give up on him when it’s destroying my soul and my life. I hate that he doesn’t see how much I care. I hate that I can’t fucking walk away… 

I hate that I obsessively check my phone hoping he’s text me to let me know he hates me because if he’s still talking to me, maybe he will come round. I hate everything. I hate it all so much. 

I hate that I’m top afraid of being judged to tell even a counsellor this and I’m still to afraid to write it anonymously here…

I wish I was my sister. 

-A

Reading as a distraction

My life isn’t boring, it’s just shit. Reading is my distraction when I’m depressed.

I should have known I was becoming depressed from the amount I’ve been reading the past eight or nine months. I’ve always read a lot, even as a kid I’d fly through book after book. I had the reading age of a fifteen years old by nine. I don’t know why but at some point along the way I stopped reading so much and started binge watching TV shows on Netflix and movies that I genuinely had no interest in. 

Reading takes time and effort. It puts you into the shoes of the protagonist. Movies and TV shows give you an insight, yet they can never display the array of emotions the way a book can using words. You can become absorbed by a book, if you let it. You can take on the feelings of that character and picture yourself in their life. You can read it aimlessly as ultimately you’ve no control over what’s happening next. It’s not like real life where you’re expected to make a decision and communicate with people. 

I’ve read hundreds, if not thousands of books where being the narrator has seemed much more appealing that my own life. It’s not that my life is dull and needs to be shaken up from the mundane, I just don’t like it. In fact I hate it. 

Sitting here in and waiting room, writing this, passing seconds until a therapist is ready to see me next. How much I wish I could tell them somebody else’s problems and not my own. The fact I want to lie to them… Does that make me more fucked up? 

-A