The appointment mix up was entirely their fault and they totally understood why I was upset and why I didn’t attend either session, so I calmed down, accepted it with good grace and went to the next one.
And it was OK despite my embarrassment. That said I was unable to hide my coldness towards the assistant who fucked up even though I wanted to be more friendly and forgiving. I still can’t see why she didn’t reply to my texts in a timely fashion, but even I should be able to see that she probably wasn’t trying to be antagonistic or disrespectful.
I say it was OK; I actually find these sessions bone achingly tiring and laborious. The exercises. The machinations. The manipulations. The stupid props and ridiculous cheap felt comfort blankets. The unquestioning trust of the others.
I know that they are trying to help me. But I can’t help but see through it all.
There are revelations, confessions, laughter and even camaraderie. I just can’t bring myself to feel a part of it.
Shrink No. 2 even tears up sometimes when the others cry because she says she feels our pain. I try so hard to bite down my suspicion and cynicism, but I watch her watching me, and meet her gaze, unflinchingly dry eyed, as wary and mistrustful as a fox with it’s foot caught in a trap and think ‘It’s all an act. You’re as transparent as a second rate actor vying for a soap award. I don’t believe you. Nice try though.’
I believe that her intentions are good. I just can’t bear the dishonesty of it all.
Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by the honest one to one relationship I have with Aunty C, my counsellor of seven years. But I have to acknowledge that despite her respect, tenacity and loving care, there is still something within me that isn’t working properly and I have to go back and work out what it is and how to manage it via a different psychiatric discipline.
Afterwards a group of them congregate in the car park, giggling and bantering, happy and grateful that they got through another painful ninety minutes, and as I try to sneak by, one of them invites me along to go for a coffee with them.
I can’t do it. I mumble and excuse about needing to walk the session off and head off in the opposite direction.
Fact of the matter is, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be friends outside of this group, not just for me, but for any of them really. We are all damaged individuals, and whilst everyone has been kind, friendly and respectful to one another to date, I doubt if it will always be this way.
Familiarity breeds contempt as the old saying goes, and I struggle enough having so many people know my shit, and I predict when the day comes that it all kicks off because one of us is forced to confront really painful feelings and failings that we have to take responsibility for, all those lovely familial feelings will shatter into a million pieces, voices will raise (“I thought you were on MY side!”), the air will fill with accusations and recriminations and the loss and hurt will be all the greater.
I for one, bitter old soothsayer that I am, want to survive as emotionally unscathed as possible, so it’s best that I expect nothing by way of friendship from any of them.
On the property front, nothing is moving, hence on the financial front things are rather desperate and I’m struggling to retain the illusion of stability and solvency. And whatdaya know, Christmas is on the way!
And still I fall. Down to the ground, down to the ground.
Ho frigging ho.
But I guess that whilst I’m stuck in this situation (well until I’m evicted anyhoo) I’m local to the hospital and can continue with the treatment.
And right now I’m looking for some work, any work to keep the wolves (bailiffs) from the door, and have no choice but to hope for better things to come.
I can’t even bring myself to think of how I’m going to conclude 2014 on this blog and plan 2015, as the more I plan to triumph over my trials and meet the new year in a blaze of glory, the more the fates remind me that I still have so very far to go, and when Sista plans, God rolls around on his fluffy white cloud and laughs his fucking arse off.
But I hope. And hope. And hope.
And whilst I’m at rock bottom in so many ways, I can now look back on my shit fits, re-read my written rants and can see how much I overreact to and blow up over the most trivial of things. And when I think about how much I have done this for most of my life, especially in the working arena, it makes my face go hot with embarrassment and shame.
Ah the shame. Is there any end to it?
The only thing I can take from this is that whilst 99% of my life lies in tatters around me, that 1% is awakening, shifting and hopefully flourishing so that I can start from ground zero and build a life worth living for myself.
It just might take years rather than months, that’s all.