I came home today in an absolute rage. I'm still trying to figure out if that's a good thing, or rather (since I'm doing my best to understand how few "good" or "bad" things there are) how it's going to be helpful, what it means. I'm absolutely crazy feeling. I can't decide if I want to type here or write in my own journal or just sit or listen to music or lie down or sleep or call someone. I'm absolutely crazed about money for the trip, which is ridiculous; if I end up going, it'll probably be for about 36 hours, and I don't care how obsessed with Wisconsin I am, I don't have the "skillz" to go bankrupt that quickly. But there are a thousand other legitimate problems that I can probably avoid by focusing on this one. I mean, I've managed to stray almost completely from the fact that I came home in a blind rage. 'Home,' of course. The question of whether or not I'll ever go home is part of the problem. Godd. So, ok, I had a session today. After an unreasonably hard weekend jumpstarted by a seriously uncomfortable session Friday. (The one where I didn't talk at all, realizing later that I didn't want to talk because I wanted to have moved on from Rogers, even though I don't want that at all. I'm not torn, here. I'm ambivalent. It's not 50/ 50; it's 100 per cent in two entirely opposite directions, and I'd like to articulate just how much that sucks, but it's not something I can put into pixels. Seriously.) Friday was hell; Saturday was worse. Saturday was the "I can't do anything worthwhile or have any sort of life so long as I'm completely caught up in what I feel for them, and there's no way to not feel this for them - I've tried to get past it (when I really felt I wanted to) and can't and what's more I don't want to... Therefore, there's nothing I can do, and it's too painful; it's so painful, actually, that I don't really want to be here (if I can't get beyond this pain because you know, if it's possible to live without this pain, I want to stay here more than anything - and no, I don't mean this apartment) - but I can't "not be here" because I know how painful that would be for people, and no matter how I feel (which usually comes back to "I like being alive") I simply cannot put other people through a pain I know as well as that one. So that leaves me wishing I'd never been born, even though thousands of seriously fabulous things have happened, and I wouldn't want them to un-happen... what other option is there? (I believe the doctor's understated response to all of this was along the lines of, "Yuck" - which made me laugh and laughing didn't really feel appropriate.) And then there was yesterday, Sunday, where I went out with my dad, and had a decent time with the exception of - toward the end - the absolute agony of "my parents are divorcing" settling in again. (And didn't the time my mom told me was allotted for this to happen run out a few weeks ago? She does remember that she's supposed to tell me when they're officially divorced, doesn't she? Aigh.) Then there was this morning, when I wanted to do a thousand (mainly mindless) things, but didn't have time to start any of them. (Because I had an appointment at one, and I was in bed until after eleven catching up on the sleep I didn't get during the night.) Nowhere near so bad as the past few days but still leaving me antsy and frustrated. (That's probably somehow connected to all the plans I feel I need to make for the Wi trip, but can't because I haven't gotten the information from Sara yet. Fuck, fuck. I didn't check the mail today; I could run down and see if whatever she said she was sending me has arrived. I'd call her, as the phone ringing a few minutes ago made me realize that I wish to be talking to her - now; however, I think my mom is still speaking with the person who actually called. I'll check that.
No dice. Mom is on the phone, and there's no mail for me. I don't think it'll be a decent hour to call (although a decent hour is slightly extended with Sara, usually) by the time my mom hangs up, so, I guess I need to settle for trying her tomorrow. And get on with my story, to whatever extent I have one. (Depressed much? No wonder I'm so often mistaken for a pessimist. Ha. Hopeless optimism is so often mistaken for plain hopelessness in a life like mine. I'm riding a tangent again. Please don't make me talk about what's really going on; I don't know much of what's going on, and what I do know I'd rather not remember.) To be honest, I don't even remember where I was, but that could be because I wasn't getting anywhere. Behold the power of cynicism.
So, I went into this session a little scatter-brained (from all the things I'd thought of doing - most of which I'm still thinking about doing: for instance, "holy hackysack, this room needs to be cleaned!") but trying to focus on the task at hand. Having a productive session I did everything in my power not to sabotage was a high priority today. (It's always a high priority, but the strength of Saturday's, Friday's, and the previous-Friday's memories nudged even a little further up the scale. Speaking of nudging, only one very cool person responded to my not-so-subtle hints about contributing to the Big List, and I know far more than one very cool person. Come on...) Tangent again. Damnit. I'd quit resisting, but then I'd be here, writing this, until some time in June, and you'd be reading it until some time in November. And that's not cool for anyone.
Mom dropped me off, after I teased her about avoiding the doctor, (and thanked her for making it impossible for him to infringe on my session time by chatting with her- ala Friday), and I only had to wait five minutes for him, which has to be a record. He brought me water in my green snowman cup (yes, it is my green snowman cup, and no, the snowman isn't green; the cup is green and has a snowman on it... aren't you glad I clarified that?), and I actually drank some of it, which means of course that I did end up crying - long before the session was over, unlike Friday.
We started out with what had happened at the end of Friday's session, and I told him what I'd come to understand afterward: Basically, I get caught up in how much I want to stay attached to Rogers and intense are the longing and the love - and I don't realize that I have this desire, perhaps (and this scares the socks off me; really, I'm no longer wearing socks) equally strong to the attachment-desire, to grab my Sketchers and run. Just run at the highest possible speed (for a borderline asthmatic who tends to keep a healthy distance between the word "shape" and any nasty, implicative prepositions) away from Wisconsin, away from Rogers, away from everything that has anything to do with those three months. The concept of Eternal Sunshine... was not a new one for me. Obviously. I mentioned it was relevent. I am constantly trying to decide if I'm better off in pain and remembering or without the pain, which means without everything. It seems like I almost always come to the same decision eventually, which is that I coudln't bear to give up everything I'd have to give up to forget them, even if it were possible (which it doesn't seem to be.) Lying on my bed Saturday, I was trying to keep my eyes on the ceiling and I had my glasses off - trying not to see the Rogers shrine. I wanted, really truly wanted (and scream-cried at the idea of wanting to) to take the whole thing down. To get rid of it all. And that's where my mess becomes clear as glass to me. When I realize that, when my pain hits its apex and throws me toward some drastic action, and I realize even then I can't go through with it. Even in pain that feels fatal, I can't make myself put those few photographs and whatever else into the trash. I can't let go of it. I won't let go of it, until I feel like I can't survive hanging on, and then when I try to let go of it, I can't. Then I say, I can't let go of it, hurriedly explaining afterward that of course, I wouldn't want to.
Could someone please provide a new wall for me to bang my head against? I'm too accustomed to these few I have.
He asked why it was easier to talk about today, and I guessed that I understood parts of it (such as why I wasn't talking) better than I had Friday. And I had taken that "keeping it together" thing to the edge, and well, the edge was Saturday, so screw that tactic. And then, I honestly don't know what happened to the conversation. I told him about Saturday and Sunday; he asked what I did with my dad, and I told him that. We talked a little bit about how the theme of the movie has nothing whatsover to do with my life. Right. He asked if I'd broached the trip-topic with my dad, which I did - Friday night. I called him and asked if he was up for a crazy question; he said he guessed so, as he had a lot of crazy answers. So I asked him if would be interested in driving to Wi, and he said, "Sure, I'll take you there," which is so wonderfully my dad, and then I had to hurry and explain that it was a specific day I wanted to go, and that I'm not sure I want to go yet, and he checked his calendar and told me he could do it. (And the part of me that was trying to run away exploded while the part of me that's trying to live Then-and-There fell to her knees in relief.) He actually got so enthused about it that I started to worry he hadn't heard the "if I decide to go" clause, but by Sunday his workaholism had kicked in just enough for him to ask me to let him know really soon whether or not I want to go so that he can take clients that weekend if I change my minds, and not enough for him to cancel on me. Nice.
All that relayed to the doc, I went on to further detail the part of me that's intent on breaking "free" from this. (Free from the one good thing, from the thing that saved my life. Right. Free. ...Isn't it fun to listen to my brain as it slowly develops schizophrenia?) He said I'd never told him that so clearly before, and I hurried to tell him none of it's true (because as soon as one of these voices states its opinion, the other one flips out that the-other-voice will be taken as the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth and I disclaim everything previously stated.) I know that at one point he asked me if there was any chance this wasn't for real, saying he was worried that I might get "burned" yet again by receiving official info through unofficial channels. I told him there was no way Sara would make something like this up, it's possible the details aren't quite what she said they were - we haven't gotten to talk since she left that message, but in all likelihood - if she had something to send me with all the info sitting in front of her - it's cool. And seeing as it's a vigil, I'm guessing that it truly is open to the public, or the invited public, or something similar.
Just having to say that made me a little grumpy; I don't want to deal with the idea that this might not happen for a reason that has nothing to do with me. This led to the doc's insistence that Dave's icky response to the skewed message given him also has nothing to do with me. I don't believe that. I mean, I understand that the information Dave was given was inaccurate, and based on that inaccurate information he made a decision which he might not have made if he'd understood what was actually going on in the situation. However. I'm not convinced he's wrong to distrust me, which sounds seriously similar to a statement entirely formed from lacking self-esteem, (it's on vacation, I think; I know I have some now, but it scurried off to Fiji or some such paradise) and might well be but that doesn't mean I believe it any less. Ok, I'm trying not to believe it, or part of me is trying, or all of me is trying part of the time, or something similar, something incredibly confusing now that I have two heads. But I think it makes some sense. I really am attachment-oriented, which is the politically correct way of saying clingy, needy, et cetera. So how can I really fault him for putting up that wall? I mean, who's to say I'm not going to use him, who's to say the fact that I need him at all isn't inappropriate? No, that's bullshit. At least somewhat, that's bullshit. Have I been paying attention? Do I understand how hard I work to keep from ever hurting, using, or crossing anyone? Seriously. I'm compulsively conscientious; at least, I really think I am. (I'm not sure of anything anymore, but I think I used to know this.) So, I guess, I really think that wanting to be able to write Dave letters he's not even expected to respond to is not an outrageous request. I'm just full of self-doubt right now. The supply is high, and oh, how the low the demand. (I don't even want it when the supply's low...)
I'm worried that even though my intentions are innocent now; they won't stay that way. Mainly because I have one doctor right now - just the one. He's my entire treatment team, and for whatever reason, lately, I end up extremely pissed at him a lot of the time. I want to think this is a good sign; I want to think that feeling so comforted by him had a little to do with being so incomplete and needy, and as I grow into a real person, I'm more inclined to feel affronted by someone else's theories around my life and my choices. I understand that I've also been defensive when I was trying to avoid something painful, but based on how quickly things have turned around (and around and around) over the past few days, I really don't think that's anything more than self-protection. I don't think it's dangerous at this point.
(It's getting seriously late in my day, especially considering my body thinks it's an hour later than it supposedly is - stupid time change - and I'm not going to be able to construct sentences much longer, which is the drawn-out way of saying that I'm going to draw this mess of an entry to a close soon.) Quickly, then: I started to feel bristly and reticent again. He asked me a question about whether or not I'd ever visited my old elementary school - a reminder of how natural it is to hold onto people or something, to grow and not have that growth somehow disturb what that place/ those people were for me. I went quiet and pissed because what I wanted to say, but wouldn't, was, "What do you think?" Let's take a poll; based on our knowledge of Mary Brave nee Lastname, let's make an educated guess. Do you think I visited my old schools years after graduating from them? The longer I stayed silent, the more he elaborated on the question, so I actually said, "I don't want to answer that," to which he replied, "Ok," so quickly and casually, that I got the impression he's trained himself to make it abundantly clear that I can always refuse to go somewhere in a given moment. He waited a beat (very respectful...and honestly, I do still like him; I being sarcastic and caustic and I'm pissed, but I do still think he's really good at his job...even if right now "his job" sucks for both of us) and then asked if it felt like a dangerous question. This pissed me off about as much as the question itself, so I just sort of spilled something like the following onto his ottoman:
"It feels like - the truth? - it's like... what do you think? Seriously? This is me, and - like with the Rogers thing - I wish that all I wanted was to go there for a night, spend a night with them, and come home. I wish I didn't want anything beyond that. In fact, if we're being completely honest, I wish that I didn't want to go at all. I wish that I could move on. But no. Of course, I went back and visited those schools; of course. But I'm not doing that. I'm not going to sit here and go through all the times that I've tried to hold onto something I had to move on from, and how messed up it all was, and how much it hurt. I'm not doing that. And I don't care about that; I'm still not giving this up."
"No one said you had to."
"Everyone says I have to!" Oh, wait that was later. Ok, give me a moment. He took this little speech rather well, saying something about how much pain we endure during childhood, all those times that we attach and then have to move on. (Which is true. School, camp, everything you do as a kid. Neverending attachment-snappage.) Despite his response, and sort of because of it, I continued to feel frustrated and a little malicious. He told me that whoever decided we learn through suffering was a sadist, but nevertheless, he thinks it's true. I was basically silent, except that I'd promised myself I wouldn't be, and I was refusing to leave in one of these brooding, explosive moods yet again, so I kept pushing the next frustrated statement at him before he could say, "See you Friday?" ...And that worked pretty well, until he uncrossed his legs (signal number one), moved forward in his chair (signal number two), folded his hands (singal number three), and said something about picking this up again Friday.
He stood up. I had no idea how to counter him standing up, but I cared so little for social protocol at that point (one of the perks of the therapeutic relationship is that I can flip out and it's not considered a relational breach of contract; frightfully often, it's considered a good thing) that I didn't bother following the cue. I let it all go again, gave another rambling speech, which of course, I can't remember. (It's offically Tuesday; I've been writing this entry for so fucking long. And the only person who benefits from that is dear Matt Nathanson, who was being unjustly ignored, and has now gotten some playtime.) Hitting points like:
It [my "fucking unending-attachment Thing] is sick. (He had said it wasn't.) It is a problem. Because - you can deal with all this, all this...eating disorder, depression, phobias; I really do believe that you know how to work with all of that, and we could do it, and I could get better, but I would still be this way. I would still have this fucking-unending-attachment-thing, and so long as I'm like that, I still can't have any sort of life. There's still no future for me. I can't let go of it. I can't move on, and I won't give it up-"
"No one says you have to."
"Everyone says I have to! What you said- about...I don't have to get over them. I can stay attached, and that's it. That's it." (Really, this did make slightly more sense, when I was actually talking and not half-asleep.)
"Where did you get the 'that's it?'"
"Because that's it. If I can't give it up, if I can't move on, there's nothing for me. There's no way for me to live."
Somehow, we finished this ridiculous parody of conversation; I shook his hand and was on my way. But I do remember one moment on that couch, at the very end, actually hearing one of my thoughts and thinking, maybe it isn't so dramatic as that. I remember feeling then that this session did go better than Friday's, and had been at least slightly productive because I had done the ranting-venting-flipping-out part *with* him, during the session - instead of alone, with my stuffed animals, some time in the 24 hours following. And that's a step in what I hope is a positive direction.
I didn't ask him to call Dave and exchange the info he had offered to exchange via a letter. I feel it would be extemely less awkward to talk to Dave if this mess was cleared up beforehand, but I also feel that it would be less awkward to clear it up myself than send my therapist in to do it for me. Maybe I'll ask him to write the letter, and if I go to Wi, I'll take it with me. That way, I can always give Dave "documentation" to support my case.
This was a very, very long-winded way of saying the session felt awful but went fairly well. I think it nearly is June. Damn. And my computer's been slow this whole time, so I now have an asterism on my arm. I don't have a problem with this, though I do wonder if it was a good idea to use one of my most expensive pens.
As if there's a better use for it. Bah.
~me