I think today, objectively, really stunk. But for one reason or the other, I was very much numb and sleepy, and my brain kept playing ridiculous nonsense that made me laugh at random moments for no reason. And thanks to that, I survived.
… I think.
I keep on saying it like I can’t believe it… because it’s THERAPY. I thought being a regular visitor to the Psychiatrist office was weird enough, but with the start of therapy, I think I am officially a bad case of nonsenses.
I did it mainly because, to be honest, my family is going insane. Because of me. I’m the person with the great potential who’s throwing her future to the trash and all she cares about is sleeping all day. A while ago, I decided to avoid all discussion about my future, until I think I can handle it. I was getting supported but… my family woke up today and considered this was unacceptable, like evil dream fairies had appeared collectively inside their brains while they were asleep. Out of nowhere they pulled out this psychologist with a very strange name, and took me there, no way to refuse.
I don’t mean to sound like a little girl who is supposed to be dragged to therapy even though she has admitted that she can’t deal with herself. Maybe I am being extremely stubborn, but I don’t consider therapy to be the right thing for me. I have no idea what it is… but it is not therapy. Therapy involves opening up to a stranger and discussing issues and pulling out stitches that have grown old in you and you forgot to deal with them in the past. Therapy involves opening up to a stranger, period. I have never been great with verbal communication… I might have all these ideas in my mind, but the moment I get asked “what are you thinking of?” the ideas dilute into unintelligible gibberish.
What about the almighty question “How does that make you feel?”. When asked that I feel like a tiny little rock has gotten stuck in a tiny little hole that is keeping a whole dam from breaking and flooding the entire world. I just can’t put it into words, much less into Spanish words, much less into verbal words.
My lack of ability in expressing what I think my problem is, is of course an obstacle in communication that almost always leads into the person not quite getting what I’m trying to convey and making their own interpretations that are usually very far from the truth and that I can’t seem to be able to correct.
So I just say some generic stuff like “When I was a little kid I didn’t interact enough with my peers, and that made me shy and lonely in my teenage life and adulthood”. And they write it down as the cause of my current messed up head.
Today, the psychologist basically concluded that I don’t know how to deal with practical issues. That I spend too much time thinking about nonsense, learning useless things and acting like a child. That I need to learn to accept a role in society, and accept that I am a human who needs to work, be responsible, independent and focus on practical issues that lead to things like money and successful lives.
Gee, I’m the rock stuck in the wheels of the engine of society all over again.
He said that he sensed that I just don’t care about being practical… that I see an organized life as something generic, boring and not attractive whatsoever.
Okay, although this last bit is true, I don’t consider it to be a part of my personality more than a result of depression. Right now, I don’t care about my life at all. I am not suicidal like I’ve been before… but paraphrasing a Grey’s Anatomy line, I AM passively suicidal. I am not slashing my wrists or overdosing, but I’m sitting on the line of life and death, waiting for a wind to sway me one way or the other. I am dealing with life and death matters here, and I seriously couldn’t give a rat ass about having money or a successful future, when I don’t even know if I’m going to be alive next week or next month, and my survival instinct just doesn’t really react to the threat of death either. I have been fantasizing with death in a very morbid manner. I have been thinking what it would be like if I jumped out of a balcony or swallowed my collection of Olanzapine. I don’t wish for death lately… I wish to survive and have something inside me shaken up to make me decide for one side of the damn life and death line.It is not fair for me or the people who care about me to see me lying there undecided and dead alive waiting for the right wind to carry me. I am a zombie.
Of course I didn’t tell that to the man, this is something that only came out now, in written words to be posted in a blog. Since I had no idea what bothered me so much at the moment, I just kept looking at the desk while he talked and talked and my mind wandered. Our trains of though had definitely taken opposite directions and there was no way to detour them back on track.
I can’t do therapy. My verbal brain is slow; I cannot keep up with a conversation like that. I need time to think and digest and process and vomit, I need a lot of things that are not what therapy has to offer.
At the end of the appointment, fair or not, I was thinking the man to be an idiot. And I started laughing. I contained it pretty well inside the office by drinking lots of water without being thirsty, and looking like I was about to cry; but after the door closed behind me I couldn’t keep it in anymore. The psychologist and my parents must have heard me, because everyone came out with a much more concerned face.
To ruin any possibility there was for me to like the therapist, he finished it off by telling my parents I should get off my meds and commit to therapy (Er, I’m sorry? WHAT?) . Then he completely and irreversibly blew it by saying a bunch of pseudo psychiatry crap that I know to be completely misleading.
Finally he suggested hypno- therapy, and of course, he could perform it on me for a very nice fee.
You are never leaving me in a room with that man alone.