My therapy sessions on Thursdays always seem to be the most intense compared to the other sessions during the week. This week was no exception. My general exhaustion probably didn’t make it any easier on myself or on my therapist. It was a disaster.
It started out okay. I talked about work. Both my jobs seem to be going really well. I am getting a lot of positive feedback which is a little surprising to me, because I spent ten and a half years at a job where I was made to feel as if they were doing me a favor by keeping me. I had mentioned in an e-mail to my therapist that I was working on grad school applications in between job shifts. She asked me about it in session today. I told her I didn’t get far, I still had to write the essay. She asked where I was applying to, and for what program. I’m not striving for much, just the bare minimum. Then she asked me if I would consider doing a doctorate program instead of just a masters. What? Me? I can barely function as it is now and I’m not even in school yet. I don’t even know if I can handle a masters program, and now you’re throwing the idea of a doctorate at me? Do you know who I am? I’m in therapy so much it feels like a part-time job sometimes. How am I supposed to function in a doctorate program?
Then she had to go and say it. “You’re smart enough for it.” No. No. I’m not smart. Please, let’s pretend I’m not smart. Let’s pretend I’m of average intelligence, or better yet, below average. My mother hated that I was more intelligent than she was. She always made me feel like shit about it from an early age, whether it be through negative comments or smacks to the face. She resented me for being intelligent. I think I ended up internalizing that negativity.
I knew what was going to happen once my therapist went down that road. Initiate downward spiral. Cue the negative voices in my head. Here comes the nausea. I sat there and tried to listen to my therapist the best I could, but it’s hard to focus when all I could really hear is the commotion going on inside my head. My therapist could tell I was struggling so she came and sat next to me to hold my hand and help keep me connected to the real world. She asked me what the voices were saying, but I didn’t want to tell her. They were saying horrible things. Then she asked who was saying them, if it was my voice or Charlie’s voice. But it was neither of ours. Then she asked if I thought I had other parts besides Charlie and Anna and K. I don’t want to think about that. I don’t need any more parts. I can’t handle any more parts, especially parts that seem to act just like the abusive people in my life. No. Just no.
Then I told my therapist I should have stayed home. She thought I meant stay home from therapy. I really meant stay home and not move away. I wouldn’t be struggling to keep myself together, to keep a roof over my head, and be minimally fed if I had just stayed home. I’m slowly killing myself here. How is it any different? I’m making progress, but at what cost? I don’t know.
If that wasn’t enough, I reverted back into what I call my “evil child syndrome”. I tried fervently to convince my therapist that I was evil, but she just didn’t get it. I told her she couldn’t see it because it was inside of me, but she had to trust me that it was there. She couldn’t see it yet because she doesn’t know me well enough. But she wouldn’t listen to me. I turned away from her in frustration. She said that those things my mother told me were lies. But mothers don’t lie. One day my therapist will see the evil in me.
I went out of it for a little after that. I remember getting really angry and pulling away from my therapist because I didn’t want to hurt her. I came back holding a black crayon. Not a surprising choice at all. Black is my color of choice when it comes to anger. I wish I remember what I colored. Maybe it will come to me later. Does my therapist keep these things? Does she have a folder with these monstrosities I create in therapy? My God, how embarrassing. I need to stop.
No more therapy.