One Month On and Better Off Alone

Today is the mensiversary of my last psychotherapeutic encounter with C.

What has struck me most acutely about the past month is how remarkably well I have coped with therapy ending despite my hugely significant attachment to C, and despite my righteous fury at how I was treated (and am being treated) by the Trust (and to some extent by C himself). The first few days after that final session were rough as fuck, and the first week in general was certainly not great, but overall I haven’t found myself the psychological heap of batshit insanity that I thought I would be.

I’m being told by various sources that my new position that I wasn’t abused in any way and my belief that I’m being watched are delusionals catalysed by therapy’s end. Thanks to the new Quetiapine dosage, I am starting to see things in what is in sane circles probably known as a ‘more rational’ fashion, and I accept that people probably aren’t watching me (unless they are shooting occasional, surreptitious glances at my blue hair). The sex abuse thing I remain conflicted about; I don’t believe it, but the ‘memories’/creations are pretty vivid, and my twisted sickness notwithstanding, I can’t really see why I would make it up. I told A yesterday that it was probably because I was bored, but apparently that is ludicrous. Looking at it from an entirely removed and objective viewpoint, I can agree with him – even if I don’t feel it.

Anyway, let’s assume for the sake of argument if nothing else that this denial/’paranoia’ is some sort of delusional psychosis. A and NewVCB (and some lovely readers) feel that it’s been brought about by the cessation of therapy, and is little more than a ridiculous form of defence mechanism. If so then, in the short-term at least, this reaction is better than the complete psychological breakdown that I had anticipated.

When my attention is somehow drawn directly to C, I confess that I do feel sparks of regret and sadness…perhaps even longing. There have been a few instances where this happened, the minutiae of which for various reasons I can’t really discuss here (not without a password, anyway). It’s why I haven’t attempted to write up the final six sessions with C yet; I haven’t forgotten, and I still intend to write them for at least the sake of narrative completion, but I need to be certain that I can cope with it, and not end up being driven into the messy situation that I predicted, but which has remained curiously (yet welcomingly) elusive to date. The onset of the madness could simply be delayed, and I wish not to invite it unnecessarily. Yet at a deep, visceral level, I think that when the time comes to record the last few weeks, I will be strong enough to do so.

Despite the potential trigger, I have had a necessarily brief but illuminating glance through some of the archives here about my sessions with C, and can reluctantly recognise that whilst he ultimately did more harm than good (his culpability in that being debatable), he did at least do something positive. I know more about myself now, and I know more about why I am and why I became mental – and I feel like I can start to face things in some sort of tangible fashion as a result. I should have been facing those things with him, but I’ve already sang from that song sheet 50 million times on this blog, so let’s not go there.

Last Thursday night, I ended up in a lay-by off a roundabout about 60 miles down the motorway from where I live. It’s the second time I ended up in that lay-by specifically. The difference between the two otherwise identical trips is simple: previously, I ‘woke up’ in such places, alarmed and confused, having suffered regular stress-induced fugues in the immediate wake of therapy sessions. Last week, I ended up there because I fucking wanted to end up there. I drove speedily and with symphonic metal blasting out of Disraeli, my car, because I wanted to. And I fucking loved every second. At one point on the trip I was struck by how much better I felt overall and, tellingly, had felt for a while. I still believe I’m seriously ill, but I have been given a reprieve for a wee bit of time anyway.

A believes that before therapy concluded, I was in a more positive frame of mind than I had been, say, a few months before that. That obviously wasn’t because therapy was ending, because of course I was petrified of that eventuality – and I still absolutely and completely refute any contention on the part of the shitty Trust that it was properly brought to a halt.

Anyway, I agree that things have been at their most stable in months, despite this catastrophic event haven befallen me. And that, dear readers, is because my medication fucking works.

It’s no miracle cure, and it’s not a substitute for proper, long-term therapy (that of the nature that I am apparently not allowed); having not resolved all my issues means that I am susceptible to regression and relapse at any point, and I do not consider myself well in the least. But I am surviving, I’m coping, and I’m not the vapid, catatonic non-entity nor the hallucinating, fearful, crouching-in-a-corner madwoman that I have in turns been. For as long as my mental health problems are unresolved, I will be those things again; I know that. But for now, I am managing in my own quiet, uninteresting way.

I can’t make up my mind on Venlafaxine, though I think that the current higher dose has possibly made a bit of a difference to my mood. Putting it specifically aside, though, I honestly believe that Quetiapine has saved my life more than once this year – much, much more so than over 60 sessions of psychotherapy ever did.