I showed up to my appointment, my third one. No one tells you that getting there and sitting in the lobby is far worse than anything you end up having to talk about. I sit there, every time, for 15-20 minutes. Watching peoples’ brats wreak havoc, and listening to mumbled conversations that others think are inaudible.
She’s so chipper every fucking time. I’m always in that crowded room, and I get called, and she says it in such a way that it’s hard to respond to her with the irritation and anxiety I’m feeling.
I don’t know if it’s helping, or will. I guess it’s alright to be able to admit things I can’t usually. She listens and maintains eye contact, and really that’s all I require; someone who pays attention for short period of time, so I can say what I need to say. She gives feedback, which is strange. Hearing a stranger dig through your words (the only honest words you ever say) is invasive but enlightening. I get to hear a “normal” perspective. I feel like I’m in a room studying a completely foreign species. She’s not bad—but I don’t know what to think.
I told her that I know that someday I will kill myself. I said it honestly, with all the hate I always feel. I told her it is the one good thing in my life, the one option that doesn’t feel hopeless. I told her how much I hate the stupid appointments and how I think it’s a waste of my time because yeah, maybe I should fucking suffer.
She thinks she’s clever, adopting my language. I said “fuck”, then she slowly inserted it into what she says now. Trying to relate. Trying to get in. And I asked for it, didn’t I? I won’t answer a lot of her questions, but I am trying to learn from what she says. She has a point at times, and it makes me laugh to realize just how far into this hole I have gone to block out even the few things I manage to enjoy.
This last time she told me everything is my choice. And she did it in this manipulative-I’m-not-manipulating-you way, because I mentioned I don’t know if I believe this helps. She told me I didn’t have to come back but that she wanted me to. In that way that makes me snort because I’m sure it’s what she says to everyone. But I’m not supposed to assume, right? Isn’t that what we’re practicing? That I’m not supposed to lump people into categories the one time they make a bad move? I’m supposed to not assume that I’m being rejected and they hate me. I have to attribute reasons to their behaviors, but on a broader, more holistic scale, taking into account past encounters. I’m supposed to believe that despite my self-loathing, others might not hate me. Hmm.
It sounds stupid when I type it out, but I don’t know any other way to handle it. I’ve been so poisoned by rejection lately, that I find it hard to breathe. I have so little left in me, that each cut is brutal and leaves me feeling mortally wounded. I feel weak and pathetic for it. I hate for it. I want out. I want free.