Psychotherapy Session Over

Yesterday I still had not decided with any conviction that I was going to go to therapy today. As the afternoon wore on and it was approaching the ‘too late to phone and cancel’ phase, I decided that, if I was not feeling awful today, I would go. The new added bonus was that I had decided to let myself leave if I wanted to. So, with that thought in the forefront of my mind, I made myself get up this morning and leave the house.

Since my previous session had left me feeling pretty awful and a little betrayed, I did not hold out much hope that today would be any different. I knew, at least, since I was leaving the city, that this really would be my last session. I did not want it all to end on such a bad note, so I went today hoping to get some closure on the whole thing. I needed to release some of my anger from last week and to hopefully get some kind of feeling that the failure had not been solely my fault. To be honest, I wanted the psychologist to at least be aware of how I felt if nothing else. I needed to leave therapy thinking that it was not a total disaster, to hang onto some hope for the future.

The session again, was not great, but this time I did not allow myself to get hurt by it. I had not expected much, just hoped for something. It’s probably good that my expectations were low. The psychologist and I are just not on the same page. He appeared to have very little idea about how bad I had felt last time. I explained how I had tried to talk about anxiety, specifically, and some other things and he had just talked over me. He seemed unwilling to admit this, even when I reminded him of exactly what he and I had said. I even made my body language display the fact that I was unhappy and angry. I said I don’t know what else I could do short of holding a sign above my head. He didn’t respond. I told him I have enough people that ignore me already; I don’t need someone else to. He didn’t respond. He did not respond to anything I said. This does not mean that he did not talk. He just did not say anything in response to what I was saying; he went off on a tangent, or hadn’t understood my point, or (and this bit nearly pushed me over the edge) went back to the topic of decision making!

He only said two things which were in some way relevant. ‘That’s not the way I work’, which was a response to me explaining it would have been more helpful to work through the reasons for my anxiety and my inability to cope, which he took to mean ‘tell me how to cope.’ I explained this was not what I meant, but he ignored that part. Secondly, ‘I’m listening now’, which I did not believe, considering he still seemed unable to comprehend what he was listening to. It was too late to listen, ten minutes before the end.

I understand that his professional position entails that he must step back and look at things objectively. He, however, is just not present. I see no compassion or empathy in him. It was like we were having two separate conversations at each other. I tried to respond to him and tie the two together, but it was impossible.

I did not leave the session feeling anywhere near as destroyed as last week. I was still angry, but less angry than I would have been if I had not gone. I hope that now I can let some of the anger go. In writing this, I have realised I am still more angry than I first thought! My main feeling, though, is of utter disappointment. I had hoped that last session would rekindle some kind of hope in me. It did not.

I feel frustrated and let down by this whole process. In the back of my mind, although I tried not to let myself believe it, I had really wanted this to help. I do not want to feel this way. I want to live life.

I feel pathetic, that I have allowed these things to happen to me. I did not want to go to the doctor or the councillor or the psychologist. I did not want to take antidepressants. I did all of these things because I was too weak to say ‘No.’ to the people around me. I know they want what’s best for me, but it should be my choice. It is my life. Why do I not let myself choose it or live it?

My overall thoughts on therapy are that I would like to get off this NHS merry-go-round, for now, at least. I need a break. I need some rest. Most importantly, I need to consider what I want. I need to stop trying to please everyone around me, because I feel like a failure. I feel like a failure anyway, so why not fail on my own terms? This does not mean that I will never seek some kind of therapy, but I will only when I want to do it. When I am ready and I think it will benefit my life.

The moral of the story is I need to take control of my life. I need to find what’s right for me, be that therapy or something entirely different. I’m glad I’m finally off the ride, able to sit on the ground, collect my thoughts and calm the butterflies.

Psychotherapy Session Three

‘A waste is a waste.’

Foals

Yesterday I had another appointment with the psychologist. To say it did not go well would be an understatement.

This week I actually wanted to talk to someone. In fact, I felt desperate. My anxiety yesterday was crippling. For days I have been fearfully trying to keep my depression at bay. I needed to relieve or at least release some of what I was feeling. This did not happen.

The session began by talking about decision making again. I felt as if we were just going over what was said last week. I realise that the therapist cannot remember every client and conversation, but some of the things he was suggesting as some kind of revelation, were point I had made the previous week. Our time continued in much the same way, as I tried desperately to move onto the issues that were most pressing for me right now. At one point I actually got to the stage of coming across as pretty rude and said: ‘These are things it would be good to discuss in a few months, but I have more important things to talk about right now.’ This statement had no effect, he continued on the same topic as if I had not said anything.

He asked why it had been difficult to come there, finally picking up on something I had said. When I explained that it scared me to leave the flat, to walk down the stairs, to do anything, he interrupted me. ‘No, I mean why was it difficult to come here? I think it was because you are worried about talking to someone.’

If I could have brought myself to shout at him, I would have. Instead I cried quietly and tried to explain that I wanted to talk to someone, that was not what the fear was about. He moved on after this, not hearing what I was saying and, I think, presuming he was right.

By the end of the session I had become an emotional wreck. I tried to keep my sobbing sounds and jerking body at bay, but it was no use. As he took out his diary to indicate my time was up he said: ‘This session has been pointless for you. I see you have things you want to talk about, but we haven’t had a chance today.’ I wanted to make a sarcastic comment about how I had been frantically trying to talk about what I wanted, but I couldn’t speak. He ended the session by telling me that I had brought up the topic of decisions. He failed to mention that it had been in response to the first question he asked me. I left with a wave goodbye, biting my tongue and trying to hold in the wailing that urgently wanted to escape. I spent a few moments in the corridor trying to compose myself, failing, then quickly escaped.

Overall I am so disappointed by this experience. I know it sounds extreme, but I feel betrayed; not specifically by him, but by the whole system. I thought this was the place where I had some say. Where I could talk about what was bothering me. When he ignored my cues and refused to listen to what I was saying I felt awful. I felt as if I was absolutely nothing. I am not a real person, with real rights and authentic feelings. I am just a thing he has to pretend to listen to. I have experienced other people brushing over things I have said, but I understand it is because they do not want to talk about it and do not know what to say. They are allowed to be like that. I understand. This is, however, his job.

I do not think he is even aware of my anxiety issues. When I first tried to talk about my depression, in a previous session, he dismissed it, saying, ‘yes, yes, you don’t enjoy anything.’ I do not understand. If this is only meant to be an assessment then I do not know why he is not trying to grasp the overall issues. Perhaps he thinks that a few sessions on decision making will be enough to make me decide not to go back.

I phoned my mum afterwards and was on the phone for three hours crying. I was still crying this morning. He just made me feel so pathetic and worthless. I am accomplished enough in that art already. I do not need someone to help me with that.

He may not be a bad therapist, but I do not think he is the right one for me. A part of me wants to go back next week, to give it another chance. I’m angry that this session went the way it did and I do not want it to end like this. However, I also never want to go back there again. I do not think I could handle another session like that. In addition, I was rude. I have come across as a very negative, depreciative version of myself. I am embarrassed and ashamed to go back.

Where do I go from here? I think I will try and see my GP on Monday, although he is rarely in the practice and I’m not sure if I can deal with the disappointment if he is not there. Whether I go to therapy next week or not I have to endure at least another week of anxiety and trying to fight off the depression alone. I do not know how I’m going to do that.

Psychotherapy Session Two

Today was the day of my second session of psychotherapy. This morning passed so slowly, the afternoon slower. I was a ball of anxiety, desperately waiting for three o’clock. Not that I couldn’t wait for the session, but that I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I fidgeted, I faffed. I could not settle or concentrate on anything. Waiting, again.

As it turned 2.50pm, I was finally nearing the dreaded building. Fear began to overwhelm me, but alongside it fought an already approaching sense of relief. I fought against the anxiety and swallowed it down thinking ‘almost there means almost gone.’

As I sat down to begin the session my anxiety gentle eased away. Always present in the background, for now, at least, it was subdued. Only fifty minutes and then I would be free from this worry for another week. All in all, the session wasn’t too bad. The psychologist would pause for long periods of time, which I did not know if I was meant to fill with ramble or not. I almost laughed as these pauses continued to get longer and longer, but it was from nerves rather than amusement.

I talked about drifting through life and not making decisions. The problem again was that I was just telling him things that I already knew. I know why I can’t decide or find direction in my life. I want help to change that. I want to stop drifting. When you’ve been unemployed for a year, you have a lot of time to think and analyse. This last month or so of avoidance, I have been doing it a lot less, but still. He has fifty minutes a week and I have the other 10030 on top of another twenty three years.  I’m probably demanding a bit much when I expect him to help me make some major revelation when I’ve only spoken to him twice. I know, I need to give it time. The only conclusion we came to was that my life has been one moment of disillusion after another. Well who’s hasn’t been?

Next time, which won’t be for another two weeks, he suggested we discuss if I actually wanted to be there. I will decide, in the session, if I want to come back. Maybe we should have discussed that today, but perhaps I do need time to think. I had not intended to tell him that I didn’t want to be there, it just came out as an example of me not taking responsibility for or control over my own decisions. When he asked why I had not told him the first week, I replied: ‘I thought it would be a bit rude.’ I still think this, but perhaps it’s better if I am honest. I’m worried that I’m coming across as arrogant and a bit offensive, but I think it’s just the situation having a negative effect on me. When he asked if I wanted to get something from this I said: ‘I like to know why I am the way I am, but I would like to learn something I don’t already know…So you have to be very good.’ ‘I got that,’ he replied with a laugh. Well, at least he seems to be taking it well.

I really do need to make a proper decision about whether to continue on this leg of the journey or not. This weekend I need to speak to my parents about their expectations and pressure over this therapy. I need to let them know that guilt is the driving force in me continuing with it. I know that they are not making me go, but it would be beneficial for me, for them to say ‘You do not have to go. It is your choice,’ rather than ‘It will be good for you. It will help you,’ and implicitly saying that by not going I am refusing to get better. If that does happen, then I feel that only then can I properly make a choice about my own future. If I choose psychotherapy then I will be going to the sessions with a different mentality, a positive mentality.

Whatever my decision I cannot just use fifty minutes every week or two to work through my issues. It will take years to get anywhere. I need to actively learn about myself again and start living with the real me. The me who is sensitive, who has feelings, who hates inequality and injustice, who feels people’s pain and cares about others and the world. They were all positive traits, even if they were hard to live with. But they were, and again, could be me. I can become my true self again. Actually, I’m going to go for an improved version of my old self. Positive disintegration begins again.

Psychotherapy: Fear, Doubt and Apprehension

The waiting game I have been reluctantly playing is coming to an end. I am afraid.

Almost six month ago I was added to the psychotherapy waiting list. At the time I agreed, reasoning that when I got an appointment I would then make the decision whether or not to go. Last week I received a later informing me I have an appointment, now in less than a week’s time.

I had been feeling reasonably ok, up until that fateful letter. Reading it I became awash with fear. My first thought is ‘It’s too late, I’m getting better.’ That is the first lie I tell myself. Over the last few weeks I have relearned the skill of holding it together, keeping it all inside. I spend my days trying to distract myself from me.  When I cannot stop myself from becoming overwhelmed I feel as bad as usual.

Other jumbled thoughts tumble over each other; Do I want to go? Can I do it? Can they help me? Maybe, maybe, maybe…

I went on a walk this morning, past the dreaded place, as I have done many times since receiving the letter. When I went on my first expedition I expected to be confronted by a hospital-like building, but this is just a big old house. I eye its large white front as I approach it. Pausing momentarily, I peer up to its vast expanse. Gazing through the windows, its disguise slightly falters. I see impersonal, harsh, strip lighting. Still, it could just as equally be any public building; a teaching facility, an office. The sign outside gives the place away again, affiliating it with the NHS.

I hope to see someone inside who looks inviting, or even a patient like myself. Really I am watching for normality. I want to see someone who is ‘normal’ going inside. Then, I panic: knowing that if I see someone or something far from normal then I will never make it inside.

Suddenly I feel like I’ve been staring, there, too long to look as if I am just casually passing. I hurry along, glancing back and scanning around me, but I think I’m unobserved. I go home, as fearful as ever.

One of the reasons I am apprehensive is that talking to someone does not feel like it will help me. I have already had a few sessions with a councillor, which was a pretty horrific experience all in all. The day that she discovered I was not coming back, was the only day she did not look at me with fear in her eyes, at a total loss of how to help me. That is the problem, I feel as if there is a misconception that counselling or therapy can only lead to a positive, or at worst, neutral outcome, but that last time it made me feel worse. I hope this isn’t a repeat of last time.

Although, from past experience, it rarely does, talking might help. There has been the occasional time when something has been eating me up inside – the change in the dynamics of a friendship or something I have wanted to say that I have kept inside – that when I have finally said it, it is gone. I do not dwell on it any more. It does not consume me. I worry the things I will have to say in that place will not be like that.

Also, there are two conflicting sides of myself, which I feel will cause problems in therapy. On the one hand, I am brutally honest and, if questioned in the right way, I will not be able to lie. On the other hand, I have spent most of my life hiding; hiding my personality and my true self. How I really feel is usually too much for people and for me. It is easier to hide the fact that things really are this bad. This conflict causes minor problems day to day. If someone questions where I am going or what I am doing, I am forced to tell them, even if it is something stupid which I am embarrassed to tell them. I feel like I am never allowed the courtesy of privacy. I often question if this is why I spend so much of my life in disguise. The only thing I am allowed to hide is myself. I am my own secret.

I am also worried about how, or even if, I should cover my tracks if someone asks where I am going. What if a friend wants to see me that day? What do I say? ‘I have plans,’ is never enough. Most of my friends take that personally to mean ‘I don’t want to see you.’ When I first went to the doctor I had people telling me how ridiculous I was being. How I was wasting my time. They saw it as self-indulgence, instead of pulling myself together and plodding on like everyone else does. Like they have to do. So I’m hiding away until after my first appointment. I might pretend I am visiting my parents, if I really need an excuse. Should I be thinking like this? Is it wrong that I want to feel better than I do now? Is it wrong that I cannot cope?

The real question is: do I want to go? I went to the doctor and the councillor to try and appease others and to prove to them that I really am trying to get better. A quick scan of the enclosed questionnaire suggests that it is unlikely they will send me away with no further appointments. Things may have improved the last few weeks, but apparently I am still not normal.

The dread comes from knowing that I will have to go, regardless of what I want. I will have to actually walk up those steps, sit and wait… then what? Whatever comes next.

The overwhelming fear is that this may be something that, again, makes me feel worse. Therapy, as a concept, undermines my own view that the only person who can truly help me is myself. I hope I’m proved wrong… I think.