It's a bad, bad thing when someone (who in my case would a therapist) asks you how things have been and you reply (or in my case, I reply) that they've been better (which feels like the truth at the time, almost), only to be asked why they've been better. It's a bad (bad) thing only because when I'm asked why, I reply with all sincerity, "Well, as yet, nothing horrible has happened." Nothing horribly tragic, unfair, abusive, or devastating has occurred in the past few days. So never mind that they've felt less than good; never mind the actual quality of the days and the sleepless nights - relatively, this is better.
Last night, I'd been crying seriously hard for awhile, and I thought about calling someone, except I knew that they'd hear the tears in my voice and that would start them worrying. I tried to come up with words that could set this person at ease, but I only found that same dull callous that produced "they've been better." My potential response went something like: "Don't worry. I'm really ok. No, really, I am. I am. I'm just... I'm just sad, you know? Just normal sad. It's just a feeling. It's not like something awful's happening." [It's not a symptom, it's a feeling; therefore, it is fine.]
Just sad, augh. It's not the case at all. There's sad, homesick, angry, raw, opened, lonely, longing, guilty, grieving, frightened, and a thousand other things. But what do they matter? They aren't symptoms.
Writing this is not helping me right now, so I'm going to quit. Quick summary of what I would have detailed had it been helping: Yesterday, I held fast to my "composure" at the doctor's office. I spent the entire session (which was cut short because he spent a great deal of time at the beginning talking to my mom. Which is supposed to be illegal, and for which, he did not apologize) maintaining reticence because even without speaking, I was on the verge of tears. When he ended the session (before I'd had the full time, you know, to tell myself to stop this nonsense and talk) he went to get me some meds, and I, of course, started bawling as soon as the door closed. He came back in and said we could talk about it Monday. Swell. Swell. Swell.
Wait, I'm detailing. Fuck. I didn't mean to go into this. Summary: I didn't talk at the doctor's office, but mom had told him about the potential trip on the seventeenth. I left there hurt and angry and no longer at all composed. I proceeded to cry my eyes out and then fall asleep. I realized that not only was I terrified by how much I want this thing (to go) - when I'm not at all used to wanting things, especially ones I can have - not only am I anticipating how disappointed I'll be if this is taken away from me, I am (remember a week ago?) also trying very hard to run *away* from Rogers. I'm trying very hard to be past, beyond, out of reach. That's the part I never seem to remember. That's the part that wouldn't talk.
Mom told me she can't take me. I cried a few hundred droughts away. I tried to work with my tear-ridden voice and called my dad. I asked him to take me, assuming that I decide to go, when I have all the information. He said he would. I was impossibly scared and too relieved to feel safe sharing.
A mess of a mess of a mess. It's like going there, so scared, and staying, and coming back for pass, and going back after pass, and having to leave at discharge, all at the same time. It's like lock yourself in a room with your therapist and don't come out til May.
~me