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mousmeI'm stuck.
Stonewalled.
Waist–deep in the muck.
Swimming through a goddamned lake of half–chewed bubble gum.
Isn't therapy supposed to help by now? Or something? Change something? Anything at all?
I think I'd feel better even if I were feeling worse, if that makes any sense. I just don't get it. Here I'm being given all these strategies, all these techniques, and I don't seem to be getting a handle on myself at all.
I haven't cut in a month or so, not since my second session after which my therapist told me I wasn't allowed to cut during therapy. Go me. It bothers me to no end that I could stop so "easily," that all it took was someone in a position of authority to tell me "don't do that" and I stopped. Just like that.
What the fuck was wrong with me that I couldn't do it before?
So now what?
I just go through the motions every day, and I don't dread getting out of bed and life from the outside seems pretty good and minor annoyances don't make me flip out the way they used to.
Except I'm pretty sure that's the Paxil talking. So what happens when I stop taking it? Do I go back to being a "mood disorder not otherwise specified" "type II bipolar" or whatever new label they want to assign?
I feel like I'm on a treadmill that's going ever so slightly too fast. I'm keeping up for the moment, but one day I'll run out of breath and get mowed down like roadkill. Just a bloody splat on the side of the road which people either ignore or turn away from in disgust.
:"(
I'm reduced to crying by emoticon because I can't do it for real anymore. Dry-eyed, I can face the world with a brave smile and take anything that's dished out, and I'm not sure why.
I'm not even frightened. Not anything. Just numb.
Well, that's not quite true. I think if I looked hard enough I could find a small, vestigial, atrophied little bit of an emotion lurking in there somewhere, so shrivelled it's almost unrecognisable, stretching out its arms towards me and begging me to take it back home and nourish it back to life...
Stonewalled.
Waist–deep in the muck.
Swimming through a goddamned lake of half–chewed bubble gum.
Isn't therapy supposed to help by now? Or something? Change something? Anything at all?
I think I'd feel better even if I were feeling worse, if that makes any sense. I just don't get it. Here I'm being given all these strategies, all these techniques, and I don't seem to be getting a handle on myself at all.
I haven't cut in a month or so, not since my second session after which my therapist told me I wasn't allowed to cut during therapy. Go me. It bothers me to no end that I could stop so "easily," that all it took was someone in a position of authority to tell me "don't do that" and I stopped. Just like that.
What the fuck was wrong with me that I couldn't do it before?
So now what?
I just go through the motions every day, and I don't dread getting out of bed and life from the outside seems pretty good and minor annoyances don't make me flip out the way they used to.
Except I'm pretty sure that's the Paxil talking. So what happens when I stop taking it? Do I go back to being a "mood disorder not otherwise specified" "type II bipolar" or whatever new label they want to assign?
I feel like I'm on a treadmill that's going ever so slightly too fast. I'm keeping up for the moment, but one day I'll run out of breath and get mowed down like roadkill. Just a bloody splat on the side of the road which people either ignore or turn away from in disgust.
:"(
I'm reduced to crying by emoticon because I can't do it for real anymore. Dry-eyed, I can face the world with a brave smile and take anything that's dished out, and I'm not sure why.
I'm not even frightened. Not anything. Just numb.
Well, that's not quite true. I think if I looked hard enough I could find a small, vestigial, atrophied little bit of an emotion lurking in there somewhere, so shrivelled it's almost unrecognisable, stretching out its arms towards me and begging me to take it back home and nourish it back to life...