I am sorry that I’m telling you this way. I’m sorry that every time I have something big to say I can’t just say it to you – I have to write it down. I have to practice it in the fake therapy session in my head, and then I have to try to recap it all for you. Only I can’t explain the crazy, so I write it down. And then I feel bad, like I should be able to tell you adult to adult.
I wish you could be in the therapy sessions in my head. I thank you though, because obviously over the years you’ve taught me what to do and say to myself. So you are there in a sense.
These therapy sessions aren’t planned. It’s like if some other part of me starts wanting to tell you what’s going on in here. If you could witness it, if I could really relay it to you, I think it would tell you a lot. I think you could help more. But I can’t do it.
Part of it is because I can’t quite get there in your office. I’m always held back – always conscious that I’m on my way to work, or to home, or some other place where I need to be “put together.” I want to tell you after, but it seems so silly. So far away by the time a next session roles around. So here it is, thirty minutes later, and I’m doing my best to recap it for you.
It happens when I’m driving. Always when I’m driving. It’s really hard to sob and drive. And I do – because it’s not just in my head. I’m living it in some sort of warped PTSD driven roller coaster from hell. But you get me through it. Or your teachings do. I don’t know – too confusing.
Tonight’s psychodrama…where do I begin.
I realized that to get to the next place in therapy I need to start talking to you about some different things. Mostly, I need to be able to talk to you about sex. And about what I’ve done, and what’s been done. I live it too much right now. I don’t remember it, I live it. I cry and shake, and get sick, and want to hurt myself. I don’t, but I want to. And I say horrible things to myself and it’s not nice.
But I haven’t been able to talk to you about it. I guess the easy answer is that I’m ashamed. And I am. Ashamed and embarrassed. Of the things I’ve done, of the effects they still have over me. So instead you talk me through that in my head which lead me to realize that I’m also scared. Of you.
We addressed this once before I think, I think you suggested that I reacted in some way that showed you I might be afraid. I thought I had that handled, because really, to your credit, you are one of the most trustworthy humans I know.
Earlier, before this storm in my car, I had written a post about a different guy, and I realized something – I have been taught to think that everything bad that has ever happened to me has been my fault. I have some power over people that makes people hurt me against their better judgment. I am bad. I say that to myself a hundred times a day on a bad day. I hate myself because I am bad. And part of me believes that. Part of me believes that if I open up this box of garbage you will – I don’t even know what to call it – forget yourself? lose yourself? Either way you’ll hurt me. Maybe you’ll mean to pat me on the shoulder or something, but it won’t be in your control. That’s how bad I am. I remember getting scared of another male therapist that I connected too – once he started to show me that he felt bad for me I got scared. And I left before he could hurt me.
And really, let’s be honest, you should sort of feel bad for me. I feel bad for me. Sometimes I can’t quite fathom that any of this stuff actually happened to anyone, let alone me. And intellectually I know that I have that much power – but not everyone inside my crazy head knows it, and I don’t know how to convince them.
I’ve been wanting to leave lately. I’ve been feeling like things were good, like I was good and this was a good place to stop. Or drop down. Minimize my exposure and risk I guess. But the smarter part of me, or maybe the older more rational part of me who actually knows you as the professional you are, and knows me for the work in progress that I am, knew there was something bigger looming. I don’t think I knew what before tonight.
So there it is. Parts of me, or at least one, is really afraid of you. Terrified I guess. Terrified you will hurt me, terrified you will tell me this is all too much for you to manage. By the time I hand you this, if I hand it to you, I will no longer be able to connect to the intensity of it. I already feel silly for writing and thinking it. But I shouldn’t out-therapist you. You get to be the therapist and do whatever it is you do with all the crazy info.
I am sorry, for what it’s worth.