Therapy

I've been going to therapy, this is my third week.  Every time I get home, I feel like writing, expanding on what I've covered.

So, overall it's been helping.  It's nice to just talk.  To just have someone that seems interested in helping me...like that would be enough.  I don't talk to anyone, really. I constantly feel like no one gives a shit about what I'm going through, and I don't say that with bitterness.  Everyone's going through something. I digress.  But she's qualified, and professional, and I feel like with the slightest nudge, I'm making breakthroughs.

The first week, we talked about spontaneity and my ability to be functional and get out of the house.  She had me write my whole routine, and not only did I do that, but I wrote down the things that derail me, or keep me from being spontaneous, and since I just outlined and examined why and how, now I'm getting out of the house in a much timelier fashion.  It seems like a small thing, but for a first session, it was a big change.  So far, I can count about half a dozen times since that exercise that I got out of the house quickly, with no long drawn out routine.  This morning, included.

Last week, I had just stuck Alden on a plane, had a huge fight with Meredith, a huge confrontation with the house people, and a huge meltdown with my mother, and a nice fight with Luiz to boot. When I got to therapy, I was 15 minutes late and all over the damn map.  I couldn't settle down, I couldn't talk about any one thing.  Nancy suggested a book for me to read, and a song to add to my "get out the door" playlist.  The song was a little saccharine, but pretty, and the book...it's called Mean Mothers, and it's just what I need. Just the forward alone got me crying, and it's a whole world I never really thought about.  Like, I thought all mothers were kind of assholes, and that what you see on TV, or the nice relationships my friends had with their mothers was just like mine...fake.  Like a rotted apple.  Shiny and inviting on the outside, but rotted on the inside.  Turns out, no.

This week was the first real actual therapy session.  She has a sand table, and she prompted me to select three figures (she has huge bookshelves crammed with all sorts of little chachkis)  one to represent my past self, my current self, and my future self.  I chose a cute squeaky toy cartoony bull, as my past self, a nursing pig with like a dozen little piglets, as my present self, and for my future I picked a tank.  I chose a tank, because in that moment I felt like it was a representation of my ability to rally and plow through anything, and just get through things unharmed and...

 Then she asked what resources I'd need to help me get to the future self.  I added more pigs, I need help.  I need more people that empathize and understand, and that I can share my burdens (the dozen or so nursing piglets) with.  I also added a house, which is obvious.

Then she had me re-examine my future self.  Tanks are isolated and heavily armored.  We talked about what I do to relax...I play shooty video games, for catharsis.  I smoke pot, and I read.  I spend time in the garden.  I read a lot.  I paint.  She was like, ok, you want more people in your life to empathize and help...I don't see you making room in your life for people.  So.  That's a thing.

But then, I have to wonder, do I let the wrong people in?  This may be something for next week.  Am I shutting out the right people?  I spend tons of energy thinking about, preserving, and maintaining certain relationships, but are they the kind that will add to my burdens, or will they help relieve me?