Yeah, they’ve got me in individual therapy now. I’ve officially been in it for about six weeks but I’ve only seen my therapist twice even though they’re supposed to be weekly appointments. First he called out, then the next week I ended up calling out, then we met twice, then he went on vacation… without telling anyone? I mean, he scheduled our next appointment knowing he wasn’t going to be in the office. I might have to start taking this personally soon.
So… I started writing this post like a week ago but couldn’t muster the interest to continue it. I went in for my most recent therapy session on Tuesday, yesterday. I’m still a bit tender from it. We were discussing the symptoms of PTSD. Outside of reoccurring dreams or nightmares, as I don’t remember my dreams except maybe once a decade or so, I apparently fit the criteria perfectly. I was already pretty certain that I did since anxiety is literally you’re body reacting to fear and I experience it near constantly. It’s not much fun feeling like everything is a disaster in waiting, no matter how small or insignificant it may actually be.
He asked me about my childhood and we discussed a few things. Firstly that my anxiety has been with me for as long as I can remember. We talked about my family and my relationship with my siblings.
I mentioned fifth grade and I just started bawling. I couldn’t stop it. I curled up in my chair with my cane and just cried. There’s a good reason I’ve always referred to it as my year of hell. I never even got to tell him anything that actually happened, couldn’t bring myself to even get that far. The idea of talking about it, reliving it with another person. I’ve never even talked to Robert about it.
Here, I can write. I can type it out and let the words float away because it doesn’t feel real to me. I go back and read what I’ve written and cringe often. But it’s just words on a screen. I can delete them. Erase them. They continue to exist at my whim, only because I want them to.
Saying it out loud, to my therapist. I didn’t realize it would hurt so much. Making it real, giving it to another person… You can’t know how much it rips me apart inside. And yet “Fifth grade was REALLY bad,” was the extent of what I had been able to muster. All these feelings came rushing in. Fear, anger, loneliness. I felt petty and small. I was bullied in school. So what? Most everyone is at some point or another. They don’t end up housebound discussing it with their therapist thirty odd years later. They grow up and get over it. They become adults, however screwed up they may be. And that leads into the worst feeling. The feeling of worthlessness.
What kind of pile of absolute crap am I to be… this.
I saw my doctor after my therapist. Actually, I saw my doctor an hour later. It didn’t feel like it though. It felt like only a few minutes had passed. I checked my phone thinking it had been five, maybe ten minutes but it had already been forty. I sat back for a second, checked my phone again, and another ten was gone. I don’t know what was going on in my head that time was spinning off so fast.
Anyway, my doctor changed my meds. A bit. Increased some and then added a small dose of something I’ve never taken before: Wellbutrin. Apparently it’s in a different class from most of the drugs I’ve taken in the past, most of which being SSRIs. I’m also taking Cymbalta right now, which is an SNRI with about the same level of effectiveness as most everything else I’ve taken over the past twenty years.
Something has to change. I hurt all the time, physically and emotionally. Drugs don’t really seem to be helping, at best taking a bit of the edge off. Therapy, over the long haul, may be able to bring that change. I don’t know if it will and I don’t DARE let myself hope that it will.
Not yet anyway.