Tonight, I have therapy, and I just…I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to go there after how rough it’s been and be…okay. My walls are up so fucking high again, and I don’t even know where to begin at tearing them down, or if I even should.
I’m hurt. And when I’m feeling hurt, I just want to run. I don’t want to deal with anything, I don’t want to feel anything…I just want to shut it all down and bury all the hurt deep down and away, letting a different, hopefully stronger, version of myself deal with it. It feels like the very last piece of footing I had under me got ripped away, and I don’t know how to stand anymore. I don’t know how to be okay without the thing thats been helping me be okay for so long.
Therapy is the only HEALTHY and productive thing that I have, and thats the reason it stings, moving from twice a week to just once a week. Because losing a healthy and positive outlet in a world where I use everything fucked up and awful to cope….it’s clearly not ideal.
I don’t recall her exact wording, but she said something along the lines of that our sessions weren’t “productive enough” to still be coming twice a week, because I’d (unintentionally) been very resistant and avoidant lately. But, where I disagree, is that I’m still fucking alive.
And if being alive isn’t considered to be “productive” enough…then shit. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
Unfortunately for me, there isn’t exactly a lack of content to talk about. And all of that is what should take precedence. But I am just SO stuck in my head, and I don’t know how even begin to take these walls down. I feel so guarded and hurt, and like any little thing is just going to destroy me. I’m already barely hanging on.
I know I also need to choose my words carefully. I’m at that point where I feel bad enough that I need to be careful. And not give her the impression that I’m a “danger to myself” type of bullshit. Sometimes, I just so wish I could talk openly without getting “in trouble” for speaking honestly, about how I’m really feeling.
If I were stronger, these are some of the things I might actually say tonight:
“I’m feeling incredibly hurt and broken. I want to die, and I feel like there’s no point in trying anymore.”
“I want to drink. Like, right now. I almost drank today. And I don’t see how I could ever be sober when I feel like this all the time.”
“I tried to get my husband to have sex with me the other day, but he wouldn’t. I wanted to hurt myself, and I knew that would do it.” (We’re currently during a hierarchy for working through my abundance of sexual trauma, and sex is supposed to be 100% off the table for a while until we work through all of the steps.)
“It feels like you hate me, and I don’t know what it means anymore when you say that you care. I’m not saying that you don’t care, but I just don’t know what it means. Because I don’t think I would be this hurt and feel so abandoned otherwise.”
“My son is in heart failure. Yeah. Everything is going fucking GREAT. Don’t even worry about it.”
“They didn’t text me on Mother’s Day. And I a little bit fucking hate them for that.
“And speaking of adoption, I’m leaving for my retreat weekend on Thursday. Remember how I almost literally killed myself last year when I went, and drank nearly an entire bottle of high proof alcohol in one night? Yeah, so I’m a bit worried about that. Can you maybe care and check on me, or at least pretend to care?”
“Can you please not hate me? Yes, I know you never said that you did, but it still feels like it. No, I don’t want to challenge the thought, I just kind of want to die. I’m not being resistant. I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“I’m sorry I’m a pain in the ass. I know that I am. I’m sorry.”
There’s my beautiful partial list of bullshit right there. All of that, and more, I wish I were strong and vulnerable enough to actually fucking say. But I’m not. Because I am just so in my head right now, and I don’t know how to put any of how I’m feeling into words.
Last year, on my retreat weekend, I brought a bottle of alcohol with me and pretty much had planned on not coming home. I was pretty sure I was going to kill myself. Obviously, I didn’t, but it was a rough and painful weekend. It will be much the same this year, but my husband is coming with me, and there will be no alcohol. Because I’m pregnant.
Maybe I’m wrong, and maybe therapy will just go…fine tonight. I have my doubts, because I’m already filled with intense anxiety and so in my head about it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get the words out, and I’m worried I’ll just fuck it all up. Again.
I need this to go well so fucking badly. I need to not feel so alone. I’m not okay, and I don’t really know how to feel okay again.
But I’ll go, and I’ll try. I’ll try to lower my walls and not be so guarded…even though all I feel right now is anger and hurt. But I know that those feelings won’t get me anywhere.