If you can imagine needing something sooo fucking badly. Just, with all of your body and soul and existence, needing something. Something to go well, something tangible, a feeling or an action….whatever it is that you need.
And you have hopes. Not high ones….but….hope nonetheless.
Well, that’s how I was feeling yesterday. With every ounce of me, I needed therapy to go well. But a huge part of me knew that it wouldn’t. Going into it, I knew it would probably be rough.
But I couldn’t have written a better script for how fucked up it actually was.
Basically, no conversation was had. I was broken. I couldn’t fix it. She seemed less willing, or possibly unsure herself of why I was so fucked up. But nothing got better. For the entire 2 hours. Even when I got to the point where I was basically begging for things to get better. And knowing that I couldn’t get there on my own. Because I knew that if we left on a bad note…if I walked out of there feeling as absolutely horrific as I did…it wouldn’t be good. Not for that night. Not for the entire next week. And certainly not for next Monday when I’m supposed to go back.
I’m sorry that I’m not perfect. I’m sorry certain things have me feeling more on guard and defensive than others. And I’m sorry that I fuck absolutely everything up.
This is why people do not have my trust. Because for everything good that I thought it was, for as “stable” as I hoped our relationship was…it’s not.
Things fall down a shit ton faster than they could ever dream of being built up. Maybe that’s on me. My own flaw. Fine, I’ll own it. No, I don’t have secure attachments with people. Anyone. And yes, it is something we’re actively working on. And it was getting better. I was trying so hard to trust. And doing well with it.
But for anyone to expect that it’s going to be just any kind of better in a short amount of time…it’s not going to happen. The most broken parts of myself don’t go away quickly. Even if I am working on it.
I’m supposed to walk in next week like everything is fine and normal. And act like I’m not hurt. It’s on me. Everything is on me. I fuck everything up. I don’t get to be hurt. And I’m not going to ask for help again. Not when it comes to that.
And what sucks is that it’s going to fucking kill me.
I tried.
And I failed.
So this is how the story ends.