I have two therapy sessions to catch up on and, since I probably won’t write about them before tomorrow morning, a third will probably join them.  I remember the interactions pretty clearly, as I usually do – one pièce de résistance was asking C if therapy was really meant to make you feel worse, which hit a nerve ;) – but I just can’t find any motivation to record them in writing here (or anywhere else for that matter).  I think, letters to MPs notwithstanding, that as things draw to a close I’m increasingly finding our meetings to be utterly futile and to that end, perhaps, I can’t face writing about them.  To do so would maybe be to acknowledge that, this time next month, psychotherapy – my only hope of a recovery of sorts from my perpetual anguish – will in all likelihood be over.  That’s a thought that is both sobering and chilling.  CPN/SW or not, good family and friends or not, I’m not at all convinced that I can keep myself safe from the end of next month onwards.

To go from making what was really rather good progress in therapy to regressing into this barren Purgatory-like wasteland is frustrating to put it mildly.  I don’t know how to articulate my current feelings on the matter beyond that.  Grieving, hurt, depressed, anxious, angry, I suppose – but all of these with a certain degree of measured stoicism; perhaps I am simply resigned to his abandonment of me now.  Overall I feel straightforward but profound sadness and regret.  Sadness for the fact that I will miss him greatly, I suppose, and regret for what could have and should have been – a relationship that had the power, if given the requisite resources, to greatly improve my quality of life.

Even if I had the will to write up the last two sessions – even if I had it right now – I wonder to some extent what the actual point would be, because as I say our sessions are feeling increasingly pointless.  I don’t really blame him, and I don’t really blame me.  It feels inevitable that things would just sort of ‘trail off’ mid-sentence, mid-air, as D-Day approaches.  Just the nature of the beast, methinks.  Pointless, futile, dancing around things and dodging others.  Still, I suppose the reason I started writing such detailed posts on therapy in the first place was for a record…for reasons of mere posterity.  Empty discussion or not, surely it is equally important to discuss the final sessions of this process if that has been my aim.  So I should – and therefore, I have now decided, will – review them, but I can’t say when.

Because the problem is that my current apathy is not just about examining psychotherapeutic matters.  I am finding it excessively difficult to write about anything (perhaps not unlike how I felt two weeks ago and indeed a week before that).  In part (probably in large part) that’s because I have absolutely no life whatsoever.  Yeah, I sometimes go out for a drink with A or to a shop with my mother – but so what?  What’s that got to do with anything?  Who’d be interested in that?  Certainly not me, and since this blog (despite having quite a few lovely followers these days) is primarily my record of these dark times, I’m not going to blather on about stuff that bores me to death (death is more peacefully achieved by other means, thanks very much).

This failure of expression and engagement with life extends to contact with the outside world at large.  I’ve been ignoring Twitter, emails, text messages – everything.  I refuse to return my mother’s unanswered calls, and the only person I speak to is A.    I do go through phases of doing this every so often, but this feels deeper, like it’s likely to go on longer.  I’m in a rut, both in terms of social communication and in terms of the one form of communication I’ve always held so dear – writing.

I thought about taking a brief break from blogging – say a month or something – but as I stated here, my concern, justified or otherwise, is that even the most short-lived of interludes would lead to a situation where I never felt able to once more lift my metaphorical pen.  And ergo you get stupid little filler posts like this one, designed to at least be something, but which are pointless and vacuous in their story-telling and exasperating in what catalysed them.

But that’s not this blog’s fault.  I don’t hate this blog.  I do, however, despise its author.

BY POPULAR DEMAND, AND FOR ONE POST ONLY…

CONFESSIONS OF A SERIAL INSOMNIAC BRINGS YOU...

THE
NEXT
THRILLING
INSTALMENT
OF

C

WEEK 57

CUE LA MUSICA DRAMATICA:

(Anyone that gets the aural reference gets a gold star.  I think I’m looking at you, Karita… )

This post follows on from the extraordinarily thrilling events detailed here.  The following may make no sense if you have not read them.  It may also may no sense if you have.  Then again, they were so tremendously exciting that if you read or have read them, you might die of a hedonism-induced heart attack, so proceed with caution.  Alternatively you might die of a boredom-induced heart attack so, again, proceed with caution.  If you really must read this pointless wank, be prepared to be blown away in amazement by my inspirational transcriptional crafting and the thrilling nature of the fabulous material contained herein.  Either that or expect to find a cure for chronic insomnia.

[The Scene:  C has just admitted to Pandora that it is inevitable that, as he has worked with her for some time, he cares for her in some way].

This should have set a fire of joy off in my heart; he was effectively telling me that he cared, in whatever way his profession allows, about me.  But I was too depressed, suicidal and fixated with his abandonment of me that I didn’t care.

Eyes firmly ensconced towards the floor, I made some noise of response suggesting that any response on his part was purely professional.

“Have these things been on your mind recently?” C queried.  I suppressed a laugh.  What a stupid fucking question to ask.  As if there’s ever anything else (other than suicide, I suppose) on my mind!

I shifted uncomfortably in the seat, and sat silently.  Eventually, whilst still avoiding his gaze completely, I nodded subtly.

“You’re frightened about how I’ll respond to what you want to say,” he said, proving once again his innate and remarkable aptitude for Stating the Fucking Obvious.

You know, at the time I didn’t make the connection.  Now, as I write this, the question seems slightly out of place with my refusal to admit to my suicidal ideation, and much more connected with my perceptions of what he felt about me.  Therefore, it seems he thought that the thing I wanted to say was that I am obsessed with him and want him to like and take care of me.  He’s bound to know that, is he not?  Why do I have to go through the affront of being forced to admit that verbally?  In this particular instance he was wrong.  I was considering telling him that I’m stockpiling medication.  Of course, whilst this is true, was my game-playing of telling/not telling him an avoidance technique to avoid telling him the rest?  Or was it, as I later denied, a “cry for help”?  Who knows.

Anyway, I told him that I didn’t want to discuss the matter with him, but he tried to point out that there were bound to have been things in the past that I had not wanted to address, but when I had, they were not as bad as I might have supposed.  Even though I couldn’t think of an example, I admitted that this had probably been the case at some point or another.

I listened intently to the progressively annoying rhythmic ticking of the clock throughout the ensuing silence.  At least the arseholes from the corridor had apparently been diffused (hopefully literally).

“It must be tricky to be in this position,” said C eventually, but I chose not to respond.  After a few minutes he went on a bit again about how I felt about him and what he thought about me, so he clearly thought – or, as he later proved, merely appeared to think – that everything I was hiding was related to this issue.

“So what if it’s tricky?” I asked mournfully, resenting the fact that he was making me more and more miserable – and, what’s more, visibly and verbally so – than I had been.

“I’m just putting that out there,” he replied.  I hate this fucking phrase of his.  Just say what the sodding hell it is that you want to say, C, please!  You’re the one that gets paid to have these fucking conversations, you need to do some of the fucking work here!

I ignored him, but was stunned – utterly stunned - when he said, “this goes back to what you said earlier about being homicidal or suicidal, doesn’t it?  Maybe you feel that you’re the cunt and that you may as well kill yourself.”

I looked up in a flash and gawked at him.  ”My God, you’re good,” I said, laughing in surprise.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: he doesn’t just look (a little bit) like Derren Brown.  He’s a fucking mindreader too.  Just when I thought he was felt that my thoughts were related to something completely different, he jumps in and works the dirty little enigma right out.

He appeared to be surprised that he had read my mind, and asked in what way.  I admitted, finally – and before I could change my mind – that I was stockpiling pills.  He asked which ones, and I said anything on which I could get my hands that I knew could be lethal in overdose.

Then I said, “have you ever seen a film called The Bridge?”  [I have become obsessed with watching this disturbing but very human masterpiece in the last fortnight or so, and would heartily recommend it to everyone].

“No, but it’s on my to-see list.  That’s the one where people jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, right?”

“Yes.  Watch it.  It’s good.”

“You saw it recently?”

“Yes.  I was actually on the Golden Gate Bridge a few years ago,” I went on, sighing.  ”Unfortunately I was moderately sane at the time and didn’t consider jumping from it.  That was a mistake.”

He asked how long I’d been stockpiling for.  I wasn’t sure exactly but reckoned it was months.  I told him I’d become fixated with the film as I was fixated with suicide and that when I finally watched it, it was ‘beautiful’ (even if a jumper’s death itself is not the most pleasant).

Only 2% of jumpers have survived the leap from the Bridge.  C asked if any of them had been interviewed in the film, and as fortune would have it, one man with a severe form of bipolar disorder actually had been.  C was obviously hoping that this bloke would say he was glad that he was not killed.  As it happens, that’s exactly what he said, though I was cursory in my admissions of this to C.

In a later but related rant, I pointed out that stability in my life has been found on some occasions.  However, it’s only ever for a few months…maybe a few years if I’m exceptionally lucky.   The guy who lived to tell the tale of plunging into San Francisco Bay regretted jumping as soon as his hands left the railings, apparently, and was subsequently glad to have lived.  But…will he always be thus glad?  What happens if and when he’s back in the throes of the deepest, darkest, cruellest recesses of the human mind?  What happens if, for instance, his voices return, and order him to kill himself?  What happens, in general, if and when his stability is once again lost?

I wish him well, and hope that he doesn’t experience any suicidal ideation ever again, and I also hope he never has any reason to.  But in my own case, I don’t believe I can ever be cured, and indeed the whole ‘retraumatise-abandon’ issues of therapy’s closing weeks have led me to believe that I am going to be so badly traumatised all over again that a state where I can adequately manage my mentalism can never be attained.  Why bother, I philosophised to C, when it always comes back to this?  It’s a pointless, fruitless little dance of abject, round-the-fucking-mulberry-bush misery.  Why bother?

I went on to tell him about an interview in the film with the parents of a ‘successful’ jumper, the content of which mesmerised me.  The father said, his wife nodding quietly in agreement, that although they obviously missed their son very much and regretted that his life had been so marred by misery, they had a “who are we to challenge this?” attitude to his suicide.  They honestly felt that if his life was so unbearable, that it would have been selfish for them to have tried to keep him alive.  The father said, “some people talk of their body as a temple.  [Their son's] was a prison.”  Their mature selflessness, their humanity, brought me to silent tears.

“That’s an attitude that I think could be wisely fostered by many people,” I said.

“So, regarding you stockpiling these pills, you think I should just say, ‘OK, fair enough, kill yourself if you want to’, is that it?” he asked me.

“Maybe, but it wasn’t really you that came to mind when I regaled you with that story.  I’m more thinking about my mother.”  I exemplified by telling him about the third conversation detailed herein.

“Have you thoughts of actually taking these pills?” he questioned.

“Yes.  I am planning to do so, but not imminently.”

“You’ll be here next week?”

“Yes, unless something dramatic happens.”

“Where has this come from, Pandora?”

I considered the question briefly.  ”That fucking poison Venlafaxine doesn’t work,  this [therapy, a relevant gesture denoting his room] hasn’t work, isn’t being allowed time to work – I’m at least in the same mental position I was two years ago, and indeed it’s probably worse.”  At this juncture I went into the aforereferenced “what’s the point?  It always comes back to this” rant.

“This isn’t a life, this is an existence,” I declared (one of my favourite phrases, it seems).  ”That’s always been the case, but I had some tiny semblance of hope, quantum as it may often have been.  I don’t even feel that anymore.  Only a handful of people would miss me anyway, and what they don’t even realise is that they’d be better off without me.”

He asked how long my suicidal ideation had been building for, and I concluded it was since about April, which is when I started collecting prescriptions.

“If you take a massive overdose, you do realise you’ll be given your medication weekly,” he said.

“Of course, but that assumes that I awake from said overdose, which I have no intention of doing,” I responded in the blink of an eye.

“Are there times when you haven’t felt this way?  These thoughts seem especially strong of late.”

“I can honestly say that, in – oh? – the last 20 years, I think, there hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t thought about suicide to one extent or another.  I remember telling that to A once, and he said he couldn’t conceive of it.  I said that I couldn’t conceive of it not being the case.”

C annoyed me again by telling me that I am, he thinks, an expert in Not Killing Myself.

Right on, C.  What you don’t seem to realise, mate, despite my having already intimated the relevant information to you, is that I’m also an expert on not not killing myself.  There’s at least one newsgroup out there in the ether that details exact ways to do it (peacefully), and I am now intimately acquainted with the methods described therein.  In fact, there’s also at least three published books on the same issue – two get away with it by pretending they’re about euthanasia in the cases of terminal physical illness, but one is really open about having a pro-choice attitude towards topping yourself.  I have a copy of the latter.

(Actually, it’s a very interesting book to read even if you’re not intent on doing yourself in ((assuming you have some sort of interest in psychology, sociology, anthropology or any other -ology that takes an interest in the comings and goings of human beings)).  The first part of it, before the ‘methods’ section, includes quite a comprehensive consideration of suicide and suicidality as a societal phenomenon.  Much better than Emile Durkheim’s unbearable dirge on the same subject, though to be fair the whole approach is rather different and about 100 years more relevant).

Anyway, my feelings on suicide are meant to be for another post – one that is in the making, I promise.

I said, “it’s not through want of trying,” but the smug git instantaneously batted back with, “well, you don’t try to kill yourself every day.”

He cocked his head at me and said, “look, I take what you’re saying, I get that you feel this way.  I just think you must be fairly resilient as well.”

I laughed bitterly at him and proclaimed ‘resilient’ to be “not a word I would use to describe myself.”

And then….

Nothing.

Except…

Tick, tock…tick, tock….tick, tock.

I wanted to turn round, pull the offensive object off the wall and throw it out the window with a brute force seen only during absolute, unquantifiable rage.  Or maybe I could have considered throwing it at C’s face; that could have been an attractive option at points.  With the clock’s infuriating bloody tick tock mantra, I could hear my time with C ending, those few precious weeks disappearing down some cruel wormhole of time.  C rubs that finity in my face, NewVCB rubs it in my face, Mr fucking Director-Person rubs it in my face, and now even the bastarding clock thinks it is funny to rub it in my face (or, more specifically, eardrums).  Thanks, world.  Thanks so much, you fucking cunts!

After 17 super-eons (OK, there’s a considerable surfeit of casual cosmological terms in this post, what the fuck is that about?) he eventually said that perhaps I felt I was being left alone to deal with all this stuff.  I smiled cynically in response.

Wow, look at Einstein over there.  How insightful, C, that’s brilliant.  Well done.  Get out the champagne, my friend, because you have just come out with the psychological equivalent of the general theory of rela-fucking-tivity.  Or perhaps it’s something akin to the very first tentative bold but wise suggestions that the Earth was not, in fact, flat.  WELL. DONE. C.

“I’m used to that,” I whined.

I paused, then whinged for a few minutes more about how contemplating suicide was very comforting and liberating.  ”You know,” I said.  ”To know that you don’t have to put up with it any longer, to know that at any point you can just go, ‘fuck it, cheerio existence’.”

“Hmm, hmm,” he responded.

For some reason the ‘hmms’ enraged me, and I said, challengingly, “you don’t think I’m going to do it, do you?”

“That sounds like a dangerous mindset to get into,” he replied, furrowing his brow.  ”It’s like you think that for me to take how you feel seriously, you have to do something, such as taking an overdose, to make me believe…”

(Well, actually, asking for your help hasn’t fucking worked, so yeah, I could see how I might think this, as it happens.  STFU).

“I’m not trying to make a point to you,” I interrupted, shaking my head vigourously.  ”I just don’t think you think that I’m going to do it, and I am.”

He went off into a monologue in which he opined that he doesn’t think I have sat down and said, “right, let me make a point to C here…ha ha, I told you so,” but that I have, barely consciously, concluded that this is “the only way [I] can communicate how [I] feel”, and that the only way in which he will “actually understand” me is by my “showing it”.

“You see,” I sighed, again shaking my head at him, “you’re fixated on the idea that I want to communicate something.  I don’t want to communicate something.  I don’t want to exist.  That’s what I want.”  (Or rather don’t, I suppose).

Thinking that he was probably wondering why, then, I had bothered to communicate this information to him, I said that I was only telling him about it because he had already worked it out with his Derren Brown/Mysterion-like powers of mental deduction.  Which, although the matter had been floating around in my mind throughout the session, was sort of true.  Intellectually, I always knew I should tell him, but as already discussed, I really didn’t want to.

“What’s that like for you?  That you feel I’m not taking you seriously?” he asked.

“It doesn’t particularly surprise me,” I responded, in what might have been a slightly pompous, dismissive tone.  Just maybe and just slightly…hmm.  Then, “everybody thinks it’s a ‘cry wolf’ issue.”

He said, “so what did you think I was going to say?  Sort of brush it off and say, ‘oh never mind, she won’t do it’, or what..?”

I smiled cruelly and said,  ”I expected you to say, ‘maybe you should phone the Samaritans’.”  I laughed slightly at the idea, of which he had previously been a proponent.

This remark, to my considerable surprise, seemed to cut him to the bone, to the extent that, despite my palpable wryness at this juncture, I actually felt guilty.

C sighed and said, apparently very earnestly, “I hope I take you seriously – well, I do take you seriously…I hope you feel I take you seriously.”

“Is that a question?” I checked, and he nodded uncertainly.

Overcome with my own guilt, I said, “I do, yeah.”  Which is mostly the truth; I just get so frustrated at the difficult circumstances under which we presently find ourselves, and end up remembering every little thing he has done to piss me off.  In general, it is not my held position in the least that he patronises or dismisses me, and it was indeed cruel, by dent of my underhand Samaritans comment, to suggest otherwise.

“Look, I just wonder if the fact that I’ve actually bothered to tell you this means that you think it’s indicative of it being some silly cry for help, which it isn’t,” I told him, trying to be as nice as I could about it.

“That suggests that wanting help is silly, which I don’t think,” he told me.

“Let me rephrase, then.  What do they call people like me in general…manipulative?  Attention seeking?  Some other pejorative nasty referencing how annoying I am?”

He ignored the latter part of my statement and replied, with enraging reasonableness, that “I see it as that someone who is in distress quite justly wants or needs to be attended to”.

I looked away, unable to think of a clever comeback, and listened to the sodding, cunting, fucking, bastarding clock ticking away the last few seconds of my time with him that morning.

“We’re going to have to finish for today,” he predictably told me in due course.  ”But this is something for us to be looking at [oh, really?] and for me to be taking seriously with you.  I’ll be bringing this back up next week [oh really? x II].”

“OK,” I nodded, and I went to leave.

He stopped me from going however, which – as noted on the only other occasion that I remember him doing it, not that I can be arsed looking for the link right now – suggests that he is actually worried about my state of mind.  I suppose having had me just confess that I have a lethal amount of pills that I fully intend to ingest might just create such worry, to be fair.  Though it is only professional concern, I remain convinced.

“The most important thing for now,” he started, “is that that you’re saying that you don’t have any plans to enact this lethal act today, or in the immediate future.  You’re not going to do this now.  You will be here next week?”

“I have a date in mind which is not in the next week,” I confirmed.

He looked visibly relieved, though I suspect that is only in relative terms.  I tried to smile reassuringly, but I’m not sure I succeeded.

I was still alive for the next session, about which I hope to write soon, and during which I apologised for the laughable histrionics about which you have just read.  It sounds so pathetically childish and self-absorbed as I read it back, but then in thinking that I am betraying my own position on suicide, which is that it is not a per se selfish act.

For those of you convinced that I’ll be dead shortly, please don’t worry.  I told A on Friday night that I’ll try my best to remain alive until such times as a natural or accidental death is forthcoming, and that’s about as big a reassurance as I can give.

There’s very little of amusement on which I can end this.  So I’ll just take the finality of this post out of my hands  [Warning: do not view the embedded video if you are overly PC, offended easily, have a sense of humour that is not sick or twisted, yadda, blah, meh, gah, la, da, de, wah, etc]

Click here to view the embedded video.

I was bricking myself about this session with C, after his apparent transference-related realisations at the end of the last meeting.  I don’t want to tell him I want him to hold me, stroke my hair, soothingly kiss my forehead and softly whisper protective words in my ear.  I mean, who would want to reveal such intimate and one-sided desires?  I was totally dreading having to verbally enunciate such material, but in the end – although C made some references to the transference issues at points – I was successful in dodging much of it.  Result.  (Except that it’s not, of course, because presumably this is necessary discussion.  But, in the short-term, this worked very nicely for me).

However, we did end up having a protracted and painful discussion about something else – suicide.  Of course, we have certainly discussed this thoroughly in the past – but, shit suicide attempt in January excepted, this was the first time that I did more than just allude to it as a concept; I actually told him in depth that I had plans to do myself in.

First, however, I had house-keeping matters to deal with.  I was mortified to ask if he would provide me with a letter for the DLA people to confirm that I had been seeing him.  Now I’m mortified that I was mortified.  I should not be ashamed of being on state benefits, because I am claiming for genuine reasons – it’s not like I’m really some sort of shit dolescum twat.  Simultaneously, I hate being a claimant and find it an immensely degrading place in which to be, and it’s bad enough thinking about that myself, never mind having to remind someone that I all but revere of the fucking matter.  In fact, so disgusted was I about bringing it up that I was really quite disparaging about my claim.

I told him that the woman at the CAB had advised that, in light of my declaration of my C-PTSD diagnosis, C should note as part of the claim that I was seeing him, in part, to address trauma issues in the aftermath of child sexual abuse.  ”I don’t feel entirely comfortable with acknowledging that to the Social Security Agency,” I said, “but that’s what she advised.”  I shrugged, resignedly.

I went on to point out that acknowledgement of both psychoses and dissociation would also be helpful, then winced and said, “I don’t like having to ask you to do this.”  Read:  I don’t like you being reminded of the fact that I am a useless tax-scrounging cunt.  I want you to think of me as intelligent and articulate, but that’s not what you’re seeing.  So you must hate me.

He said, “I can certainly write them a letter, that’s no problem.  I can say you’ve been attending since February 2009 and we’re due to be concluding at the end of August 2010…”

Thanks C, rub it in.  Just what I need to hear at every fucking juncture.  Besides which, the people who work in the social security are not very bright.  They will assume that a cessation of therapy automatically denotes that I am now well.

“Can you not say that please?” I pleaded.  ”If they think you’re discharging me, they’ll think I’m well, which I’m certainly not.  They see things in very black and white terms in my experience.”

He agreed that he “would certainly not give that impression,” then asked me if I was really sure he wanted to reference child sex abuse.

I paused, considering it.  I mean, of course I don’t want that information floating about so evidently in the system.  But on the other hand, I need this claim to be renewed, otherwise I will not be able to survive and will have no choice but to catch the bus.  It is, aside from this, a mere option, but to be so financially fucked as a non-renewal would make me would very definitely make the decision for me.  I sighed, and told him to go ahead.

Rather than just agree to acknowledge the abuse very clearly, C proposed that he draft a letter, which I could then ‘OK’ or reject as applicable the following week, though he then went on to say that he had “mixed feelings” about being so forthright.  I agreed that if you have the symptoms, then you do – what has actually caused them is none of the SSA’s bloody business.

The session proceeded in a curious fashion.  There were several lengthy silences, which were then broken by C making some point about the claim and those assessing the claim.  He eventually asked was there some sort of “shake-up” in DLA, which I confirmed to be the case.

“I’m hoping it won’t affect me unduly,” I admitted, “because I hope to be back at work by then.  However, I expected to be back at work last time after a month or two, and here we are two years later.  So who the fuck knows.”

Time for C to try and annoy me.  It happens at least once every session, does it not?  I think they must be trained at Therapist University to make irritating points when engaging with clients.  It must be intended to force underlying tensions out of us or something.

“Have you ever considered returning now to some sort of work?” he asked.

“Nope,” I replied, straight off the bat.

He looked at me questioningly, so I explained that I can’t think beyond the next hour, never mind any more long-term than that.

He pressed on, asking what it was that I felt was so strongly preventing me from considering a return to work at the moment.

I said, scathingly, that being a risk of losing time, hallucinating and being overwhelmingly depressed and anxious did not present the best circumstances in which to rejoin the employment market, adding that having such an added stress before I was fully able to deal with it would be helpful to neither the potential employer nor me.

“But I suppose I’m thinking,” C replied, “that work doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing thing.”

“OK, but even a couple of hours here and there – I just cannot conceive of how that’s feasible.”

My irritation was compounded by the fact that some pack of cunts or other were heard to be engaging in conversation outside C’s door.  The room is meant to be deathly quiet, devoid of distractions.  I wanted to go into the corridor and smash the offenders’ faces off the relevant party wall until they begged for mercy.  There is a whole hospital campus, with an extensive outside area (not to mention a canteen), where these wankers could have gone to engage in their banal drivel.  Outside a psychologist’s door that clearly indicates he is in a meeting and not to be disturbed was not the best choice to start up a conversation on anything much.

And bloody C himself wouldn’t let up on the jobs front.  Seriously, what the fuck?  I can understand the desire to challenge my current lines of thinking – but only within reason.  I made it very clear to him that this was not an area in which I felt there was an alternative view.  I know I cannot cope with work in any meaningful fashion as things stand.  And I’m not the only one: A and my mother strongly agree.  Sometimes C will challenge me on something, and I’ll think, “well, there’s maybe a point there,” and I’ll tell him that – but this is one occasion in which I genuinely felt I was the best judge of the situation, and ergo his constant harping served merely to frustrate and annoy.

He claimed, when I showed myself to be visibly pissed off, that he had no vested interest in whether or not I worked; he was, apparently, simply curious as to why I felt that I couldn’t.  ”Although,” he added, demonstrating the reality of his desire to pursue this line of questioning, “I suppose I do think that if a person can work, that that can be a very positive thing, even if it’s only volunteering for a couple of hours a week.  It’s not because it’s work, but it’s about being with people.”

As if I am not aware of such an argument as a proponent of jobs.  Of course I am.  I just can’t deal with people.  I said so.  ”They make me both homicidal and suicidal, and should go away and leave me alone,” I spat.

There was a long silence, save for the unabated deliberations of shite in the corridor.  The presence of those conversing underlined my point that other people make me homicidal.  I sat daydreaming for a bit about how I would smash them all in if they were still there upon conclusion of my meeting with C.

Eventually I was asked if I had any opportunities to meet new people, to which I responded by saying that nearly all such “opportunities” were rejected by me, as I do not wish to meet or see people, except within very strict parameters set by me.

However, I proceeded to tell him about a planned “Mad Up” next month (a group of mental health bloggers including Lola, Karita, Little Feet, me and more are meeting up in London, though I hadn’t confirmed my attendance at the time).  ”I mean,” I started.  ”That’s different.  If there’s ever going to be people I want to meet, then it’s them.”

He started wanking on yet again about internet relationships being different; at the moment this lot are all ‘good’, and perhaps if I had ‘normal’ off-line relationships with them all, I would be scared that they would not always be ‘good’.  However, meeting them for one day only mitigates that risk.

“Are you therefore suggesting that I move to England for the sake of making sure I form so-called ‘proper’ relationships with these invididuals?” I asked, not even trying to hide my contempt.

“No,” he said.  ”I’m just saying it’s not the same – yet, anyway – as what we might think of as more typical friendships.  However, I’m not discouraging you – I think that sounds really positive.  It proves there’s a part of you that wants to leave the sofa, leave the house, get out there and engage with the world.”

“It’s a small part,” I replied dismissively.  ”After all, most people are cunts.  Just…this bunch aren’t.”

Apparently I sounded angry when I used the word ‘cunts’, which I didn’t think was an accurate representation of the issue – you have to spit the word ‘cunt’ out, don’t you, otherwise it just sounds silly.  ’Cunt’ is phonetically designed to sound harsh, even if you say it with the most saccharine sweetness imaginable.  Perhaps he should have studied linguistics as well as psychology.  It could have been insightful for him.

This gave him an opportunity to say that apparently I felt that he was angry with me, and therein lay his chance to explore the transference issues apparently revealed to him in the previous session.  I reminded him that what I had actually said was that I believed he hated me because he was always accusing me of being aggressive.

“Have you become quite…focused on this idea that I don’t like you, then?” C asked me.

My head was fried thinking about it and thinking about how much I withdraw from life, whether deliberately or otherwise.  As I sit here now of course I can quite easily say that yes, I ‘focus’ quite a bit on the idea that C hates me.  At the time, I couldn’t think straight, so I told him I didn’t know.

He let it pass and we sat in silence for a bit.  I was desperately trying to get my thoughts together – in particular, I was trying to fight all the suicidal thoughts that had been pervading my consciousness for weeks, not because I have any strong opinion on them, but because I didn’t want to reveal them to him.  I’m always scared he’ll ring the bin and I’ll find myself locked up, even if my rational mind realises that to be unlikely.

But when he asked me what was “going on for [me]” as we sat there, I admitted that I was thinking about things that I thought I should tell him, but was scared to.

“OK, maybe you can tell me what it is that you fear about telling me,” he suggested.

I fear you having me locked up.  Yeah, that doesn’t give the game away or anything.

“To do so would be to provide you with the information anyway.”

“Right…well, how might I respond to whatever it is?”

“In a not particularly attractive fashion.”

“What fashion?”

“You see, that’s the point, C: if I tell you that, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

He thought for a minute, then said, “but I think you can say that you reckon I’d be anxious, angry, concerned, worried, annoyed or something like that – I don’t think I’d be able to work out specifics from you saying that.”

This made me want to laugh out loud.  As if he would be any of those things.  It’s just a fucking job to him.

“Using any of those adjectives assumes an over-investment on your part,” I told him.

“In you?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought it might just be normal,” he said, making some hand gesture to supposedly support what he said.  ”You have thoughts and feelings about people you’re working with, and you and I have been working together for quite some time.  It would be a bit strange if I was just like a robot or something.  Of course you do know I have response to things.”

Ooooh!!!  Did you hear that, readers?!  Dun-dun-DUN!!!

Here, my loves, we leave our epic fly-on-the-wall voyeurism of Alice-like wonder and utter, indescribable joy.  Follow the amazing developments in Part II, coming soon to a PC/Mac/Linux or Unix OSed computer near you.

Has he complimented me?  Does he care?  Does he work the nature of the transference out?  Will I do myself in?  Will I do him in?  Will I get a life?  Will I care?  Will C get an iPhone 4?  Will his beard come back?  Will I transmogrify into a demon and attempt to possess him?

Find out all this and more meaningless bollocks in the next deeply un-thrilling instalment of C: Week 57…NEXT! [LA MUSICA DRAMATICA]

This meeting took place on Tuesday 29th June (C had swapped his days from Thursday), but should have been on Thursday 24th.  As stated and explained the other day, for the first time in our entire relationship, I cancelled the session on the 24th, so this was the first time I saw him in over a week.

Mutual agreement was that the session had ended up being a bit disjointed, but I think in some ways it was nevertheless useful – certainly much more so than the Thursday one would have been had I gone.

The conversation opened with a rant from me on how horrified I was that, straight after leaving C’s office, I would be forced to see Paedo, after my mother’s non-consultative decision to take me to Hotel California.  It feels a little odd writing about this now, as I have been and gone on this delightful little sojourn, and in the end it went as OK as such things can.  However, I was certainly not looking forward to it as I sat there with C, and must confess to being somewhat critical of my mother for some time.

I don’t remember exactly what was said, but there was one point at which he really annoyed me. He asked me if I was pissed off at having to see Paedo, or everybody else. I responded by telling him that both troubled me. He then went on to enquire as to whether there was “any value” in my mother encouraging me to see the non-Paedo members of the family.

I pointed out that I had nothing in common with them and could not see what benefit having some sort of relationship with any of them would have. “Of course,” I acknowledged, “whilst my view is that family is mere genetics, my mother’s is that blood is thicker than water.”

“I think that’s the point,” he said.

I’m sorry, but what the fuck? Even if there was value in the pursuit, even if there genuinely was, it’s fucking irrelevant because Paedo is there anyway.

I made some noise about not existing to keep my mother happy, and told him that the reality is that my mother is a hypocrite because she spends half her life slagging the McFauls off. I bitch about them here and to A, for example, but I generally avoid unsolicited criticism of them in front of my mother.

C responded by reminding me that my mother was also traumatised (due, of course, to her experiences of long-term domestic violence). So that makes it alright for her to force me to live through my traumas, or for her to be have hypocritically? How does that work?

To be fair to C, I’m paraphrasing considerably here because of my poor memory. I eventually conceded that although I fail to see the point of a relationship with most members of my family, I was willing to continue to have one of some description or another because it pleases my mother. “However,” I said, “I still don’t think it reasonable to have to face him.”

The stupid but inevitable question of whether I could see them without him was raised, but the answer is pretty definitively ‘no’.

I’m not sure what I had been looking for in discussing this with C. Was I looking for him to forbid me from going? So that the reinforcement of the earlier opinions that I should avoid Paedo due to the psychotic symptoms he has induced re-emphasised to me how dangerous it was.

Whatever the case, I also pointed out that this trip would see my first encounter with Sean, Marcus’ baby brother, who is named after Paedo. I told C that I was scared that I would react badly to the faultless child because he represents an honour bestowed upon Paedo. He, to my considerable irritation, proceeded to point out to me that I had not reacted badly to Marcus, despite my general dislike for children.

“Marcus isn’t named after the man who sexually abused me,” I seethed through gritted teeth.

“No, but you told me that the baby is known by a shortened form of your uncle’s name,” he pointed out [if Paedo is James, the baby is Jim]. “Isn’t that the case?”

This was correct, but I figured at the time that it would make no difference to my reaction. However, it turned out that C was pretty much right; I definitely saw the kid as being the diminutive of his name, rather than as his full, Paedo-related title. It’s funny how much difference a few little letters make, even if the symbolism is the same.

Anyhow, C enquired as to whether I would hold the kid. I told him that, if past experience was anything to go by, I’d have it pushed onto with or without my consent. I have to say this has always made me feel slightly uncomfortable, but it happens and you deal with it accordingly.

“So I’ll survive,” I shrugged.

He smiled wryly, and said, at which point I wanted to smash his face in, that I might enjoy holding the kid.

I told him that I did not share his apparent optimism, and decided that that angle of conversation needed to desist. I confessed to feeling guilty about slagging off my mother, and told him I had a little anecdote.

The previous evening I had been in the shower at my mother’s house and had seen a lot of little shower gels and whatnot that she’s picked up from hotels. This reminded me that she had collected a bunch of these things for me a few weeks previously, but then had accidentally left a bag full of them in a coffee shop whilst out with her friend. Upon realisation of this, my mother phoned the shop in question, got them to hold the bag for her, and went and retrieved it for me.

I was disgusted that regaling this tale to C make my voice break because, as I said, “it’s the little things that count.” I was advised that just because my mother has not always been the most validating figure in my life, it does not mean that she does not love me very much.

Hmm. So he reads my mother’s mind now too, does he? She who he has never even met? Before he had cause to irritate me – or, more accurately, before I actually fucking cried – I changed the subject.

Don’t ask me how but I ended up telling him how laziness had dictated that I’d been taking a reduced dose of Seroquel for about a week, and had only the night before resumed taking my normal dose of 400mg. When I started to space out shortly after this, he seemed slightly concerned initially but I protested that it was probably a drug hangover.

“Is that normal with this medication?” he asked, and I confirmed that it was.

He looked dubious, then admitted if there wasn’t more to my daze.

“Maybe my mind has decided to dissociate this whole sorry day. I do hope so.”

This led to discussion of dissociation in general, though it was kind of brief and the content is consigned to history as I don’t remember it. What did happen was that the topic naturally progressed to a discussion of identity and a revision of the bollocks of the previous week about (a) a possible over identification with mentalism on my part (something that I continue to dispute) and (b) a fear of intimacy on my part (something that I am willing to acknowledge).

He banged on for a bit again about how much investment I have in engaging with other mentalists online. “They’re very real, don’t get me wrong,” he told me, “but as I’ve said previously, it’s almost like you’re looking to have relationships that exist only at arms’ length. Real and meaningful, yes – but different.”

This made me laugh a bit, which confused him. I clarified by saying that I was laughing as some sort of stupid response to sadness because “even online relationships have the power to hurt you very greatly.”

“Why?” he queried, seemingly slightly concerned. “Has something happened?”

I told him of the circumstances that led to this post, and advised on how I responded to it.

I was astonished when he started – gently, in fairness, but still infuriatingly – questioning if I had been behaving in a fashion that reasonably precipitated this fallout.

I denied this most vehemently. So someone who’s opinion I had otherwise respected decided they think I’m a shit writer who’s self-obsessed. That’s unfortunate, but other people’s opinions of me are only things that I can control within reason. If I was being a complete bitch, that’s obviously something for which I am responsible. If I was merely doing the same things that I have always been doing, as in this case, someone’s changed view of me is not something I caused or can change.

I told him so, but wouldn’t let the fuck up. He went back to all the wank with Mr Director-Person, my former colleagues, la la la. I wanted to rearrange his face. What’s especially galling is that C fucking encouraged my original correspondence with Mr D-P, and now he goes about accusing me of fucking aggression?

Of course, my attempts to defend myself were seen as evidence of my aggression. I find this circumstance grossly unfair. Are there times when I’m aggressive? Yes, of course there are. That, I am all but certain, applies to us all at times. Am I more so than others? Possibly, yes, but I really don’t get his fixation with the issue. It’s not that bad, and generally there is at least some (and usually more than just ‘some’) justification for such a reaction. But C seems obsessed with it, insofar as any psychotherapist is ever obsessed with anything that applies to their clients. I just don’t get it.

Rather than continue defending myself and apparently prove his point in doing so, I shut the fuck up. I glanced about me, at his desk, his bookcase, filing cabinet, yadda yadda. Eventually my eyes returned to his desk, where I was interested to note the presence of his iPhone. I noted with smug satisfaction that it was a 3G or 3GS, whereas I now have an iPhone 4.

Silence ensued for a minute or two, when he broke into my thoughts.

“What’s going through your mind?” he asked. “You’re staring into space there.”

“No I’m not,” I stated grandiosely. “I’m looking at your iPhone and thinking, ‘fuck you, I’ve got an iPhone 4 now’. Hahaha!”

His face developed into an enigmatic sort of expression. Jealousy? Yes, I think so, but also bafflement. It was vaguely amusing to observe.

Eventually, he asked if I had really been thinking that.

“Yes,” I confirmed, “why wouldn’t I have been?”

“So, you have a sense of triumphalism – again – about this.”

Jesus fucking Christ.  I mean, JESUS CHRIST!!!!! Is there anything, anything at all, that does not have an ulterior psychological motive?! What the fuck?! Everyone who has got a fucking iPhone 4 is a smug, self-satisfied twat. Why am I such a fucking guinea pig-like example to him of supposedly flawed psychology, when the reality is that in some ways I am just as fucking ordinary as anybody fucking else?

I responded to his insult with a redacted and calmer version of the preceding paragraph.

“Again, were you really thinking that?” he pressed on. “During that pause you looked upset, not pleased or smug or anything like that.”

I shrugged and proceeded to ignore him, instigating yet another silence.

Eventually, I cautiously began to tell him that it seemed obvious to me from his continual harping on my alleged aggression that he thought I was a belligerent bitch of Satan and that he hated me. This was perhaps exacerbated by a newly acquired submissive, almost child-like stance on my part. Plus some evident upset at these possibilities. Just a little of that. Yeah. Right.

His reaction was extremely interesting to me. He seemed taken aback by my assertion that I believed that he hated me – though I am certain I have postulated the idea to him in the past – and he took a few minutes to think about it. Thanks for boosting my confidence there, C.

Eventually he entered into a rather epic soliloquy about the issue. He talked for quite a while, but the long and the short of it was that I have many, many different facets to me, of which assertiveness (as he had now renamed it) was only one. “If you were always like that, well yes – it would be very hard to like you. But you’re not, so…[here he clearly realised he was teetering on a dangerous line]…so, well, again – you have many more sides to you than just that. I don’t think that defines you by any means.”

“OK,” I responded, meekly and unconvinced.

He sat looking at me intently, his chin in his right hand, his index finger crossing his mouth at a diagonal angle. He always does this when he is considering something intensely. I wonder if he is even aware of this behaviour.

I avoided his gaze and stared at my shoes, but his eyes bored into me, and eventually he spoke.

He said, very slowly and very definitely, “there’s more to this, isn’t there?”

Such a simple statement, but so laden with deep connotations that someone outside the therapeutic dyad would surely struggle to understand.

I pretended to think about it, the operative word there being ‘pretended’. Of course there’s more to it, and really it surprises me that he’s only worked out the magnitude of it.

“Maybe,” I admitted, quietly.

And so the immortal line of, “we’re going to have to leave it there,” came to pass – but there was a second part to the quotation this time. “We’re going to have to look into this in much more detail. You know that, don’t you?”

I nodded and left, perhaps ostentatiously hurriedly. I sat in Disraeli, my car, for a long time, hugging the steering wheel. Thinking, contemplating, ruminating, musing.

This all sounds very cryptic, but of course there was an unspoken understanding between C and me. In essence, he’s worked out that issues of transference in our relationship are not just confined to attachment. It runs very much deeper than that. I’ve been fairly open on this blog on the issue in the past and I don’t want to repeat myself because it fucking hurts like hell to do so. I don’t want to face it either myself or with him. I want it TO GO AWAY.

It’s difficult because, despite some of the twatty things he says and my anger at same, overall I am glad to report that I have a good therapeutic relationship, and one that I think is effective. I also recognise transference as an inevitable side effect of that, demonstrative of the fact that the therapy is actually working to some extent. The difficulty in this case is that I am in the throes of this transferential obsession and being discharged, before we will ever be able to properly address the issue. Perhaps I am at fault because I never brought up the matter in terms of its intensity before, though the word ‘transference’ is bandied about quite a lot in our sessions. But, as any of you who’ve been there will appreciate, facing it head-on is a matter of profound difficulty.

On the issue of the end of therapy, and because I want to avoid discussing this even more, Mr Director-Person has still failed to respond to my most recent correspondence. I have therefore taken the liberty of writing back to him, a copy of the previous letter enclosed, asking for his response as a matter of urgency, though I was quite nice about it. I did, however, hear from his Assistant Director, as regards the personality disorder steering group that the Trust is developing. The letter was official but pleasant and stated that, whilst the development of their PD services are in their infancy at present, they would be glad to have my input and will be in touch again as things progress. If C thinks he’s seen my aggression, he can think again They don’t know what they’ve let themselves in for!

NB. Please forgive the probably-multifarious amount of spelling, syntax, formatting and grammar errors in this post. I’ve been writing it for about 40 years and am sick looking at it, so am just going to publish it without adequate – indeed, any – proof-reading.  Sorries.

Anyway, I don’t know why but I wanted to write something.  I suppose I worry constantly that if I allow myself to avoid posting for a few days, I’ll fall into a rut of utter insouciance towards writing.  I’ve invested so much time and effort into this blog*, and I only want to discontinue writing when I actively choose to do so – which will not, I hope, be for many years.  However, I am intimately acquainted with the tenacious lure and power of inertia, and I do fear giving myself even so much as a few days’ break from writing will lead to a de facto dead blog.  I’m probably over-reacting, but I fear it considerably, and the thought makes me tearful and desperately sad.  How can one be so attached to a website?!

[ * I worked out today that over the 181 one published posts (before this one, which is 182), I have written in the region of 700,000 words.  I'm trying to get a plug-in to measure the figure exactly, but as a rough guide, there you have it.]

So, bearing in mind my fear of an apathetic fall from whatever low level of grace I may or may not be occupying, I’m going to publish the following pile of wank, which I wrote last Tuesday evening in the wake of the C session.  I was trying to articulate the exact nature of my misery, and while it’s drivelsome bullshit, I think it does grasp that reasonably well.  To be honest, it probably describes my current mood quite well too.

Alas.

I am not in the frame of mind to write anything here, but maybe that’s exactly why I need to do so.  Perhaps I need to articulate these so-called feelings that pervade my sorry consciousness (oops, did/does that sound like wallowing? ) I’ve had a strange day.  I saw C this morning – specifics to follow – which has set me up for a weird week; as I normally see him on Thursdays, I’m going about thinking that tomorrow’s Friday, and that A will be there for the weekend.  Since it’s not, the rest of the week stretches out, seemingly infinite in its loneliness. C has, I think, hit upon something I have been trying desperately to hide from him.  I don’t want to discuss it right now because it’s a sensitive issue, and in any case I might be mistaken in my reading of what he thinks (I don’t think I am, but then I suppose I wouldn’t think it if I did think I was wrong, would I..?  Hmm).  I may or may not be more forthcoming in my review of this session, but whatever the case, the matter reminds me yet again of how imminent the separation is (as Tossface Mr D-P still hasn’t bothered to respond to my recent ramblings) and how invested in therapy – in C – I am.  I mean, I already know this – I have done for a very long time – but until relatively recently I could box it up and store it away in some far-flung, virtually inaccessible area of my brain.  That fails to work nowadays, with this severance looming in the air.

So.  I feel rejected.  I feel lonely, yet simultaneously I feel the need to hide away from the world.  I feel forgotten and I feel cheated.  I feel desolate, sad, and depressed.  Tears prick my dissenting, hateful eyeballs, and I feel my bottom lip quivering in a threatening, child-like fashion that I have not felt (at least with this strength) for quite some time…well, apart from the last time I saw C, that is. I still think ‘grief’ is a good word.  Pre-emptive grief, but grief nevertheless.  I do not pretend to understand the horror of what living with the impending death of a loved one with a terminal illness (and I hope I’m not disrespecting anyone in saying this – many apologies if so), but this feels like the closest I’ve ever been to that situation.

Friendships often taper off in my experience, and whilst you may look back on them and regret not making more of an effort to sustain them or whatever, you’re not generally faced with the abject grief that an instantaneous dissolution of your relationship would bring.  The ending of some romantic relationships may be more sudden and hurtful, I suppose, but I still find myself thinking that this feels to me more akin to losing someone important to death.  Perhaps it is because I am fixated with death.  Perhaps I am just a histrionic bitch.  I don’t know.

Anyway.  That was pointless.  I’m always told I should put my “emotions” into words, rather than uttering an allegedly meaningless sentence such as, “I’m pissed off,” but then everyone knows how I’m tortured over the forthcoming end of my relationship with C.  How many dozens of thousands of words have I written on it?  Enough, that’s for sure.

So, back to the week before then, the week before I became ill.  Regular readers may recall that the session I had the week before 17 June was a meeting characterised by (my) hostility and, in his words, acrimony.  Unsurprisingly, that informed at least part of what we talked about in this session.

C was running late again, but not so much that it ate in any way into our session, as it had once previously done.  I ran into him in the carpark and walked into the shithole building along with him.  The poor sod was bowed down by his briefcase, a coat, some other thingy-ma-bobber and his little packed lunch.  For some utterly ridiculous reason, I found this image (particularly of him clutching his lunch) to be rather sweet and charming, and I felt a sudden rush of maternalism for him, longing as I did to ruffle his fluffy (if receding) hair.

He left me briefly in the waiting room whilst he went to get himself together, but he was only gone a few minutes before he returned to escort me to his office.  As we sat down he started coughing, and was clearly a little hoarse.  He apologised – yes, C, because it’s your fault you’re sick – but to be honest it didn’t impact much on my ability to understand him.  Indeed, it further fuelled my pathetic pseudo-parentalism for him, and I wanted to wrap him in a blanket and take care of him.  I could see myself handing him hot, steaming mugs of Lemsip and gently spoon-feeding him a soothing concoction of honey, glycerine and lemon.*

What the sodding hell is this about?  How can I feel such silly maternal feelings for someone who is (admittedly not that much) older than me, especially when I don’t feel maternal feelings for others, particularly children?  I’m used to issues of attachment and transference in therapy – all too well, and all too hatefully – and I’m even used to the idea of wanting to protect C from certain things.  This whole mother-like behaviour is odd, though.

Anyhow, the brief salutations over, I took a deep breath and and reached into my handbag for something I had brought with me.  It wasn’t an extract of this blog or something of that ilk, like previous “I brought this to therapy” items have usually been.  It was a silly little gift I’d made for him.

Uh-oh!  Taking presents for the therapist is a dangerous sign of deep intensity, no?  And they’re not allowed to accept them, right?  I don’t know, but all it was was this:

It is a little white flag that I’d made out of a bit of paper and wire, with a sad face and the word ‘sorry’ ensconced across the front.  I waved it at him, briefly explained what it was (thus illustrating how crap it must have been), apologised for my behaviour the previous week and finally pushed it across the table to him.  I watched carefully for his reaction.

I was gratified and even quite touched to see his face break into a broad smile as he looked at the silly little thing.  He actually seemed a little speechless and taken aback, though apparently in a good way as he sat there doing not-very-much other smiling for a bit.  He has perfectly shaped teeth.  Not two fangs on each side like I do.

When he finally looked back at me, I returned his smile rather sheepishly and apologised once more for being a twat.

The inevitable question came up as to why I felt the construction of the ‘flag’ was necessary.  I told him that I felt bad for how I had behaved in the previous session and wanted to make amends.

“Not that some crappy thing like that compensates,” I said, “but I wanted to do something, something other than simply offering some bland apology.”

We discussed what had enraged me the previous week for a while.  It had mainly been due to the fact that he had said that I’d pronounced the almost-imminent cessation of our relationship to be ‘tragic’, which is not what I had said.  I don’t think it was unreasonable for me to have pointed this out to him, but slabbering and bitching and ranting at him for 50 minutes was a massive over-reaction.

I told him so, and he enquired as to how I had felt after the last session.  He is very well aware that I post-mortem things absolutely to death, and am wont to hang on to words he says in session, questioning their meaning and mentally debating the nature of our relationship.

The thing was, although I did feel guilty about how I’d behaved, it wasn’t as bad as it really should have been.  If someone had spoken to me the way I spoke to him, I would have created a death list with them in the top ten positions**, so I really should have been berating myself all week.  As it was, I felt more sorry for him than actively conscience-stricken.

“It’s all very well to rationalise things like these by saying that you chose this job, and that things like this inevitably come up,” I told him, shrugging,  ”and I know you’re trained to deal with clients’ anger and whatnot.  But even with all that said and understood, you’re still human – and I actually thought that you looked hurt at one point.  It wasn’t fair that I made that happen.  So I’m sorry.”

He thought for a minute, scrunching up his face in that idiosyncratic way that he always does whilst musing, then replied with something along the lines of there being a necessity for me to bring anger to therapy if, indeed, I was angry with him.  ”You’ve done it before,” he pointed out.

“Hmm.  I suppose last week wasn’t quite as bad as the time I called you a ‘sadistic headfucker‘.  I’m still sorry about that.”  I shifted uncomfortably at the recollection, particularly as he nodded to denote the fact that he too clearly remembered the incident in question.

“Well, anyway,” he said, “I checked my notes, and no – you didn’t use the word ‘tragic’ in the way that I said you did.”

“Maybe not, but I still completely over-reacted.”

He looked at me enigmatically.

“What I said was that it was ‘sad’, that the forthcoming severance of this relationship was ‘sad’,” I recalled.  ”And I think I may have also said that I felt a sense of loss.  That I feel a sense of loss.  That I think it is sad.  So there you go, I admit it.”

I do hate my treacherous fucking body sometimes; my voice broke and my lip quivered as I spoke the sorry words.  As he started to state the obvious by saying, “now you’re upset,” I waved my arms at him in a halting gesture and said, “no.  Please don’t go there, C.  Allow me to retain whatever small semblance of dignity I have left.”

“You don’t think crying or showing emotion is dignified,” he wistfully and completely pointlessly added.  However, he then smiled gently and sym-(or em-)pathetically, and was good enough to honour my request to desist from proceeding with that particular conversation.

Instead, he started talking about how I have a conflicted or ambiguous view of him at times.  I don’t remember all he said in this vein, but I tried to refute the idea that I sometimes regard him pretty negatively.  I mean, yes – I get irritated, even angry, with him at times, but as I said to him, that happens in all interpersonal relationships.  It doesn’t mean that the way in which I view him is not generally positive.

“Nevertheless,” he insisted, “those issues of anger, aggression – whether at me or whoever – they are very real, aren’t they?”

I made some noise questioning whether he thought I was always like that.

“Oh no, of course not,” he responded assuredly.  ”If you were normally angry or aggressive you wouldn’t be able to do this work at all, so that’s not the case.  On the flip side, when these issues arise between us, we need to examine them together, so of course it’s necessary that you bring them here.  But I do wonder if, when you feel you’re not being heard or whatever, you don’t maybe behave a little too assertively…which could possibly alienate you from people.”

“If you’re talking about Mr Director-Person,” I responded, raising an eyebrow, “then I believe that I have behaved in an exemplary fashion.”

He said that it wasn’t just Mr D-P of whom he had been thinking, but that he was one such example.  Another, to my considerable surprise, had been my engagement with my manager and the Horse regarding my absence from work.  Before I could contest that point, however, C queried as to why I felt that my correspondence with Mr D-P had been ‘exemplary’.  He (non-accusingly) asked if I felt that my protests were generally acceptable.  (I do, for what it’s worth).

I told him that this is an attitude that has been fostered in my character.  Apparently that was a cryptic remark (?!), so I proceeded to tell him that my mother, A, and a number of friends throughout my life have always spurred me on to defend myself to the hilt, particularly when I’ve been fucked over in some fashion, as with the NHbastardingS.

“With specific reference to Mr D-P,” I continued, “my mother doesn’t feel I’ve been harsh enough.  A helped me draft the most recent letter, so he clearly approves.  My friends seemed to think my correspondence has been reasonable.”

He seemed cynical at this, but let it be.  He asked of which friends I was speaking, and I confirmed that I was, generally, referring to those of you that I know from this blog and from Twitter.

“Your blog means a lot to you,” he stated.

“Yes,” I acknowledged, “it’s not some work of art, but it’s still my pride and joy.”

This led to a frustrating but ultimately intriguing conversation about intimacy.  C accepts that online friendships are fulfilling and meaningful and very much real, but he was very keen to point out that they’re ‘different’ to ones formed in “real” life.  The blog is of course wont to encourage contact online rather than in the physical world, especially as it’s primarily anonymous.

He said, “how often do you correspond with your ‘real life’ friends?”

I muttered something deliberately incoherent, but was forced upon his pressing of the issue to admit that my contact with them is pretty infrequent.  He then enquired as to how often I ‘speak’ to some of my online friends, and I told him that in many cases that contact was daily.

I went to justify this (as if I need to justify it!) on the grounds that my online friends understand what it’s like to be mental – in most (not all) cases, that’s how I’ve met them.  At this juncture I heard utterances about over-identification with my mental illnesses, which given this was perhaps somewhat timely.

I ignored the rather annoying accusation and told C that another issue was that because I can contact so many people through Twitter and Facebastard, it means easy, enjoyable, and ergo completely genuine correspondence with them.  Contacting  people like Daniel or Brian involves using the phone.  I shuddered at the thought and provided him with a redacted, auditory version of this post.

Much analysis ensured.  When I was unable to express myself why I am so bloody terrified of the phone, he proffered the view that this absolutely exemplified my fear of intimacy; typing on a computer screen is less interpersonal than actually speaking to someone, apparently (for what it’s worth, I do not concur).  I protested that I am not that bad with people in person, pointing out that I’ve met two people I know from Twitter in person and am due to meet a number more (you know who you are!).  I asked how, therefore, his contention could be accurate.

He responded by asking how much I go out and see people as a general rule.  How do I interact with people other than, say, A and my mother?  Can I interact with people other than A and my my mother, especially if one of those two is not present?

I looked at the floor, my silence confirming his suspicions that the answers to his questions were ‘hardly at all’, ‘badly’ and ‘no’ respectively (the latter is not universally true, but it is in the majority of cases.  Alas).

He talked on for a while more about my alleged fear of intimacy.  I have come, unwittingly, to equate it as a negative thing as a result of experiences with Paedo, V and all the others who have betrayed me over the years.  He accepted that I probably don’t consciously fear it, and said that I probably don’t mean to “keep people at arms length – or even to push them away at times”, and indeed he said that he thinks part of me actively yearns for intimate personal contact.  However, to completely paraphrase him, my reactions to intimate situations and relationships are maladaptive and ultimately self-defeating.

He even went on to remind me that I totally withdraw into myself for days on end, not contacting anyone I know (even my mother) in any way.  ”The only exceptions,” he noted, “are your friends on the internet.”  [He threw in a little joke here that I could apologise to anyone I'd failed to contact as I should have by sending them a white flag.  I laughed, but told him that he alone was to be the recipient of such a thing.]

I’m making him sound really, really dickish, but all this was conveyed much more sensitively than I have portrayed it here (though it still perturbed me somewhat, of which more in the next post).  He went on to briefly allude to the inherent intimacy of the therapeutic relationship, and said that whilst he felt that we did work together, that I was  holding him too at arms’ length.

“You’re usually so very careful to avoid showing vulnerability or emotion in front of me, though you have done it at times,” C said, looking me in the eye when I would allow him to do so.  ”You’re protecting yourself, no doubt, but in doing so issues are sometimes avoided, and you try to keep things more abstract or business-like than I think you really want them to be.”

The problem is, not that I said this to him, that things can never be what I want them to be – but, again, that is something to be further explored in a future post.

I don’t remember exactly what gave rise to it, but in some sort of response to all this crap, I eventually asked if he felt that my transferential issues towards him were represented more greatly by aggression or by fear of intimacy.

He said that he felt the two were intrinsically related, but added that his view of this was probably different to mine.

“How so?” I asked, deliberately staring him right in the face.

“I think that you perhaps understand transference [he pronounced it 'tras-fer-ENCE' rather than 'trans-FER-ence' as I do] in terms of, ‘I’m angry at my father or my uncle, so I project that onto C,’ would that be right?”

“Pretty much, I suppose, yes.”

“Well, I’m not saying those aren’t issues, but I see it more in terms of your anger towards yourself, and as far as these intimacy issues go, in terms of your inability to empathise with yourself.”

This was the end of the session, so I didn’t really get a chance to express my reaction to this hypothesis – I just sat there for the last minute or two reflecting upon what he had just said.  I’d never really considered things in that way before, but now that C had said it, it seemed absolutely blindingly obvious.  I mean – I think that some of the transferential reactions to him are related to others that are or have been (however tenuously) in my life – but yes, he’s the perfect way to punish and reject my own self without actually doing so, isn’t he?

Anyhow, again, I’ve made him sound like a twat in what I’ve written here, but really he wasn’t.  I felt that it was a productive, and co-operative session, and we parted on warm terms, with me advising him to get hold of some Lemsip.  I still wanted to mother him, you see.

[* Point of hilarity.  I originally mistyped this as nitro-glycerine.  Perhaps the week previous to this that would have been my preferred option!** ]
[** That was a joke, GCHQ / MI5 / Big Brother / whatever other thought police may be reading this.]

Admittedly, I went in in a bad mood to begin with. I’d actually been in a good one hitherto, thanks to waking up to this lovely comment from Seaneen (and one already made by Nick, to which I alluded at the end of that post). I’m always thrilled when people compliment my writing; although the blog is still primarily for my own benefit…well, if it’s considered to be done well by others, then that’s a very worthwhile, confidence-boosting bonus. So yes, I was in quite a decent mood, and the sun was shining, and I thought that this confluence of relative non-shitness might lend itself to actually covering something useful with C for the first time in about 300 years. Although, having said that, when I’ve been in a good mood in the past I tend to go in, ramble on a little, then seduce him into a discourse of academic psychology and intellectualism. But anyway…

I arrived at the hospital, and was outraged to see a car in ‘my’ parking space. Who the sodding hell did they think they were? I park in the same space each week. In fact, I have a ritual. I drive to the back of the carpark, turn, drive forward into the space, adjust steering until I am exactly six inches from both right and left extremities of the space, and finally reverse/go forward until I’m right in the middle relative to the front and back of the space. And it has to be that space.

Were I not so utterly in love with my little car, I would have used Him to ram the other car of unwitting evil out of the space. How very dare it steal my space?!!

(A tells me that I have to write a post about my apparent OCD-ish behaviour. Another foible that he finds consistently amusing is the fact that I will not change the radio station in the car, even if the most offensive thing I’ve ever heard is playing, unless he’s with me).

So I had to take another space – one that actually brought me a good deal closer to C’s building – but I felt soulless and destroyed inside. I cursed myself for having failed to bring Diazepam with me. And then my nose started bleeding, as if symbolically voicing its own displeasure at the sorry circumstances in which it found itself.

I had no tissues with me, so holding my nose, I dashed into the building. Before I reached the toilets, however, I almost literally ran into C. This was about 9.20am, which freaked me out because C does not exist at 9.20am. He only starts existing at 9.30am when our appointments commence.

We exchanged awkward pleasantries, and I ran to hide in the toilet, blood trickling its surreptitious way out of my nostril. I plugged it up with bog roll (unused, just in case you were wondering), and stood behind the door, listening, waiting, for him to go past so as I didn’t have to encounter him outside session-time again.

How ridiculous is this? Seriously. How can someone so obsessed with and attached to her psychotherapist be thoroughly freaked out by seeing him outside of the allocated fifty minutes, especially when it’s mere seconds beforehand? There have been times when I’ve dreamt of bumping into him in a pub, a shop, I even half-hoped I’d see him at the recent Metallica gig at which we were both in attendance. If that had actually happened, though, it would appear that I’d have gone completely doolally. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Anyway, having heard someone that I assumed was him walk past the door, I sneaked back out to the waiting room, like some silly schoolgirl bunking off class. Eventually he emerged again, this time to escort me to that week’s 50 minute doom.

It commenced in the usual silly way. We acknowledged each other. I even asked him how he was, something I haven’t done in eons. Then there was silence. He glanced at me. Our eyes met. He nodded. I made some not unfavourable facial gesture in response, and looked away.

And the silence continued.

And continued.

And continued.

Eventually, he said something along the lines of, “where would you like to begin?”, to which I responded with resigned laughter.

C replied by saying that things seemed to be frequently commencing in this silent fashion. No shit there, Sherlock. 10 out of 10 for observation.

I think he then said something to the effect that he wondered if we could use ‘the time remaining’ to tackle some of the issues that were paramount in my mind.

Thanks, C. Rub it in. Just rub it right in. Pour a barrel of salty piss right into my gaping, agonising wound. Go ahead and remind me that said wound is going to be open and raw for some time – possibly forever.

“But you’re trying to protect yourself, aren’t you?” he said. “So you’re finding it difficult to communicate these things.”

Did I shrug at this? I think I did. Whatever the case, my response was non-committal.

“What about the sexual abuse..?” he asked tentatively, tailing off.

The mention of this most un-amusing of subjects somehow did amuse me – the very notion that I would discuss this more when I am being consigned to the dark recesses of rubbish bin of psychotherapy was tragically funny. I eventually said, honestly but reluctantly, “I don’t think I’m going to talk about that anymore.”

It seemed ‘tragically funny’ then, but it doesn’t now as I sit here writing this review. It fills me with a deep, foreboding, unforgiving sort of sadness, that I can actually feel physically as well as psychologically. It feels almost like a part of me – a physical part, no less – is being surgically removed without an anaesthetic. A huge gap or a hole somewhere in my stomach, just clawed out carelessly with a rusty scalpel. It hurts. It hurts. So very, very much.

I have so much I want – need – to address, and nobody seems to care. This leads me to believe that I have always been correct in my resolute belief that I deserved everything negative that has happened to me in my life, including though not limited to the child abuse and my father’s point-blank rejection of me. This proves it, surely. Nobody wants to help me, or pay attention to me – they just want to reject me all over again, so everything that has gone before must have been deserved.

But enough childish, whinging navel-gazing. The whole ‘I won’t discuss the sex abuse with you’ led to the typical bullshit discussion about the end of therapy, the one I am perpetually desperate to avoid. I can’t address it without fighting tears, and I don’t want to give C the satisfaction of seeing me cry over it.

Instead, I heard myself telling him how annoyed I had been when he last week accused me of saying (the week before that) that the process coming to an end was ‘tragic’. I actually went on a massive rant about this, although I did try to do so whilst not attacking him directly. In retrospect, ranting about this was completely bloody stupid as my fury was ignited over one tiny word.

“Tragic,” I declared, perhaps a little pompously, “denotes something big. The Cumbrian shootings were tragic. The 2004 tsunami was tragic. The end of a relationship between two people – out of over six billion people on this planet – is not tragic.”

“I looked in my notes after you left last week,” he replied. “They said you said it was ‘sad’.”

“Sad! Yes, I said it was ‘sad’ alright. I did not say that it was ‘tragic’. Do admit that I did not say it was ‘tragic’?”

“I suppose so..,” he replied, apparently rather bewildered at my passion over this almost meaningless semantic issue. “You seem to have an air of triumphalism in that, though, and I’m wondering why it’s such a big deal to you?”

Triumphalism. I had accused him of the same here in my write-up of last week’s session, so rather than help him explore his question, I told him so.

Why did I say that, readers? Why?! I accepted myself that I was probably over-reacting to the supposedly ‘triumphant’ comment, so why did I have to insult him by telling him of my paranoid thinking?

He looked quite dutifully stunned, and then I think I stated on the ‘mechanistic’ comment he had made.

“I’m grateful to you for saying that,” I started, smiling, “because it led to one of the greatest compliments I’ve yet received about my blog; someone [Nick, referenced above] said that that proved you’d not seen my blog, because apparently no one could say that about my writing.” Carried away by this train of thought, I also started wittering on about Seaneen’s comment, and several others I have received from a surprising number of you lovely people.

C sat there looking at me in utter bafflement. I could almost see the cogs of what the fuck? turning inside his mind.

Eventually he stopped my narcissistic rambling. “So, you’ve been hugely complimented about your blog,” he iterated. “You’ve met nice people through it. Unlike this big, bad, nasty therapist…”

To be honest I’m not sure I realised just how vituperative I had been at that stage. To his continued surprise, I told him that I had “not been having a go at [him].”

I watched his face carefully. He looked…I dunno, ‘wounded’? ‘Torn up’?…and I suddenly felt guilt and self-disgust surge through my veins.

“You’re insulted now,” I murmured, lowering my eyes regretfully. “That really wasn’t my intention.” And it hadn’t been. I still don’t know why The Bitch came out to play with such intensity.

He didn’t respond to that specific comment, but instead said that he felt two things were underlining this negative form of engagement with him. Firstly, it was indubitable that I had a lot of pent-up anger – whether or not it was directed specifically at him, it was coming out aimed at him (all well and good from the analytical point of view, of course), and that it was in fact probably suitable and right that I was bringing it with me and flinging it into the poor sod’s face. Secondly, he opined, I was going on an all-out crusade to avoid talking about my heartbreak (not his word) as regards the cessation of our relationship.

All of this was fair, and my silent response was intended and, I think, taken as confirmation of it. I looked down at the floor. Shadows created by the window-blinds breaking the sunlight danced insouciantly on the carpet. For a few minutes, this strange waltz captured my attention completely.

“Where has your mind wondered to?” C’s voice finally asked, breaking into my distracted consciousness.

I ‘came to’, and told him about the dancing shadow-shapes. He raised an eyebrow curiously but said nothing.

Another silence briefly ensued, which I eventually broke by blurting out, “I want to see the notes you hold on me. Can you just give me them, or do I have to apply in writing?”

He hadn’t been expecting this, and was visibly surprised by the revelation. He admitted that he didn’t know the procedure, but said that he would consult the Head of Department and advise me accordingly at our next meeting.

Inevitably, of course, he wanted to know why I want my notes. Was it simple curiosity?

I said that it was, and advised that I would not just be asking for his notes, but also NewVCB’s and my GP’s.

“I think I’ll request my GP’s since I was about 12,” I mused thoughtfully. “You know, just before I became properly ill.”

Then I chuckled slightly, and added, “yes, 14 years of notes. That’ll really piss them off!”

The utterance of this comment was a serious error on my part. I should have known that C would jump on it and wank on and on and on about it – which of course is exactly what he did. He became convinced that I was only requesting my notes to annoy the various medical professionals with whom I am involved.

This is not true. Is there a certain element of caustic satisfaction from the amount of work that inevitably goes into the preparation of such things? Inevitably there is, yes. But it’s both incidental and innocent; I take such sadistic pleasure out of any such situation, and it has nothing to do with winding the Trust and its employees up. For example, when W – who lives in England – got married, I went to great pains to wrap his (fragile) wedding present to unbreakable standards in preparation for postage. Although it took me about two hours to do this, I took pleasure from the fact that I knew it would take him (or his then-fiancee) similarly long to unwrap it. I told him so, and he found this amusing. It’s just a silly character trait, and I wish C wouldn’t overreact like this.

I became sick of his whinging about this, so said, “look. I know you’re trained to read a lot into every single little thing I bring into this room – I get that, I do. But I swear to you; my primary motivation is not to piss the health service off. I just want to know what my notes say. OK?”

I’m not sure if he believed me, but either way he conveyed his acquiescence through a nod and added, again, that he would look into the procedural issues of the matter for me.

Another brief silence came and went. I don’t recall whether or not he instigated the conversation or if it was me, but in any event, an in-depth discussion developed about my intention to seek out alternative therapy when my time with him comes to an end.

I had been with Lovely GP the day before, hoping that he would act as an advocate against the Trust’s intentions to end my therapy as he had said to my mother he would. I told him, in about as un-detailed terms as you can possibly get, about the abuse and how I felt that therapy had re-traumatised me vis a vis same. After asking if C had the expertise to help ease my traumatised mind – and my affirmation that he had – LGP went on anyway to suggest I saw the Nexus Institute. He made no further reference to ‘making a phonecall’ to make sure the therapy continued, and as such the appointment was only of any use in that he gave me some IBS medication to try.

Anyhow, I told C about LGP’s suggestion, but then sighed. “I fully respect what they do,” I told him, “but regardless of that I have, by association, a long-held negative view of them, even though it isn’t their fault.”

I explained how, when I had seen a therapy assessment woman (at the same hospital in which I see C and NewVCB) when I was about 17 or 18, I had been treated with utter disdain – “nay,” I corrected myself, “contempt” – apparently having been considered as an angsty teenager with no legitimate mental health concerns.

“I made the most oblique of references to having some experience of sexual abuse,” I went on, “and she immediately threw Nexus’ number in my face and all but demanded I get out of her office and stop wasting her time.”

He thinks that the following us my belief: if I end up going to see them, I am accepting and agreeing with her view of me as a time-waster. This hypothesis most likely true. I kept apologising to no one in particular for forming such an unreasonable view of Nexus, but every time I hear of them I remember that woman’s palpable antipathy towards me. I didn’t deserve that.

C proceeded to make some comment about how I’m perpetually derisive of myself. “You often sit over there and say that your wasting my time, or that you should just ‘pull yourself together’ and whatnot. You feel that you were treated badly by that woman, but yet you say these same things about yourself.”

Hmm. I bollocked around this for a bit, claiming that most of my ‘time-wasting’ self-castigations related to times when I sat in C’s presence without saying anything, and this is true. However, there have certainly been plenty of self-directed rants on how my problems are infinitesimal compared to those of some others. I think I finally rationalised my position to him by stating that, whilst in the grand scheme of things my psychological issues don’t really matter, that they were still nonetheless very real to me. “In the midst of my self-hatred, I just lose sight of that sometimes,” I admitted.

We continued talking about future therapy, and I asked him if he’d have any recommendations for private therapists. He responded in the affirmative, stating that they would, however, be primarily be from the analytic school.

“Good,” I responded. “That’s what I’m looking for.”

During the ensuing conversation, it emerged that he was familiar with a group of psychoanalysts that I have also come across. He mentioned one in particular with whom I am familiar, but asked me to bring in my overall short-list to see if he recognised the names.

“Bear in mind,” C cautioned, “that these people are more likely to lean towards traditional analysis.”

“What, like I lie on the couch and babble endlessly, and they never open their mouths?” I checked.

“Hmm…well, any therapist you meet will try his or her best to tailor the therapy towards what’s best for you as an individual, so not necessarily – but still, I reckon you can expect them to be less interactive than you’re used to here. What exactly are you looking for?” he queried.

A curious question coming from someone with a doctorate in psychology to a person with a Wikipedia knowledge of the subject, but then he knows that I am very well informed.

“Analysis-ish,” I replied. “I like your integrative approach. Psychodynamic, but sufficiently bending the rules of that persuasion so as things suit me. I like that you actually respond. I don’t think I’d be completely happy with someone who never said anything, but notwithstanding that I really have much more faith in the more traditional therapeutic approaches. I don’t think that CBT or DBT or things like them are remotely helpful practices, except possibly in the hands of exceptionally skilled practitioners.”

“I think that issue is key,” C stated. “As you’re probably well aware, research consistently shows that, generally, one of the main factors in successful psychotherapy is the relationship between therapist and patient, rather than the type of therapy specifically.”

I did indeed know this, and it has always been one of the key problems in the Trust ending my therapy with C. After all these years – after all these horrible, painful years – I have finally found a psychotherapist with whom I have a proper, workable, trusting and intimate relationship. He is just about the best person I could have asked for. Through our connection – for we do have a connection – good work was being done, and could have continued to be done, had I not had this constant menace of the curtain-down of things hanging over me. Yet such an encouraging prospect is being cruelly and unfairly being stolen. All because some fat, pen-pushing bastard sitting in some overblown office somewhere thinks that C should be driven by fucking time-directed targets and not real, life-changing, meaningful results demonstrating a significant improvement in a patient’s health or well-being. Fuck the health service! What is the point of it being a ‘health service’ when it prioritises statistics over its patients?

I think C saw an opportunity here, perhaps noticing some vulnerability in my stature or body language. He (quite gently, to be fair) brought back up the issue of me ‘fighting’ my feelings of sadness/grief/abandonment/rejection/etc.

Yet again I felt tears prick my eyes, and a lump form in my throat. Why does he want to put me through such pain? Does his ego really need stroking that much? (For what it’s worth, I suppose I do see, objectively speaking, what he’s trying to achieve, and no – it’s not really about his ego. But I can’t bear it, however much I intellectualise it now).

I sensed that the session was nearing its end, so decided I could get away with answering this rather than redirecting it. He wouldn’t have enough time to probe me further.

“Yes, OK, I admit it – I admit it freely – of course it makes me feel sad. How could it not? I don’t like it and I don’t want it. I don’t want it to end, not at this juncture. Yes, I’m sad and yes, it hurts. But I’ve sat here and insulted you in copious measure this morning so I don’t suppose that sense of regret is always entirely evident, is it?”

Of course, armchair-psychologist-Me realises that sitting there insulting him in copious measure that morning made it all the more evident, but I wasn’t feeling at my most intellectual at the time.

“I don’t feel insulted,” he reassured. “Things were rather adversarial for the first 30 or 40 minutes, I think, but no – I don’t feel insulted.”

“‘Adversarial’,” I repeated wistfully. “[submissively] I’m sorry, C. I was in a bad mood when I came in here. Someone parked in my parking space.” I threw him a weak smile at that, which thankfully he returned.

One thing I deliberately kept from him during these whole shenanigans was the fact that I had finally posted the most recent letter to Mr Director-Person the day before (it didn’t go exactly as detailed in the relevant post, but it was close enough). To recap briefly, said letter specifically requests (for the first time) that my treatment with C continue beyond the current allocated time, citing issues of re-traumatisation and the fact that a CPN or social worker – however good they may generally be – are under-qualified to deal with something quite so complex.

I don’t know why I didn’t tell C. Probably because I know Mr Director-Person is going to blab all anyway, and they can laugh together at my pathetic, desperate begging. Still, when I decided to respond to Mr Director-Person’s first stupid and borderline-offensive letter, I vowed to myself that I would see this fight through to the bitter end. And one way or another, we’re approaching that point now.

I just wish part of me didn’t seem so hell-bent on offending C before we get there. He may claim he wasn’t insulted – but I’m not stupid; I could see that he was effected by my words, and in fact I think he was hurt. At the end of the day, I actually think he’s rather fond of me (as I am of him), and listening to a constant barrage of criticism from someone you hate is hard enough, nevermind when it’s from someone you don’t mind. It’s part of his job, I know, but I feel hideously guilty anyway, and have resolved to try and be nice to him this week.

Maybe I’ll even allow him to see some real vulnerability.

Anyway, I’m going to put a few of them up on this post for no other reason than I can.  Beware of unlikely, but possible, triggers.

This…ahem…”gem” was one I’ve just drawn on the Facebook Graffiti application.  Don’t worry, I’m not about to off myself.  It’s just a silly doodle depicting a set of thoughts that never stray too far from my mind.

(If you don’t have Flash enabled, here is a .jpg of the above).

This shite was some scribbling I did in relation to the internal conflicts I feel regarding psychotherapeutic transference:

The blackness of abject depression:

This is another scribble regarding therapy. Not so much about attachment and transference in this case, though I suppose such difficulties feature, but more about the depths of despair and nefariousness that the process brings up:

I’m not sure that the physics of this one are remotely on the acceptable side of accuracy, but the symbolism at least should be quite obvious (assuming you can make out what it is, like…):

Finally for now, a particularly un-artistic, talentless piece, but something that represents strongly how I feel about therapy and recovery:

I don’t know why I’ve really done any of these things, nor why I’ve shared them, but there you go. Things that are hard to describe in prose, despite my verbosity, seem to find their own way into the Paint programme, even if the artistry involved is dreadful

Anyway, after the lively discussion in the comments section of the ‘To Quit or Not to Quit’ post, I had determined that I would attempt to be honest with C about what I had been thinking and about the disillusionment I was feeling with the process. To my own considerable surprise, I did all this and more. It was a productive session, if rather – what’s the word? Saddening? Full of regret for what will be lost? Yes. It was productive, if rather [insert mournful word of your choice here].

When I rather arrogantly arrived in the waiting room, which I have come to regard as my own exclusive, personal space, I was horrified to see another woman sitting there. There is never anyone there. A curiosity of the building – indeed, this specific corridor – is that it houses both Psychology and Audiology, so occasionally one will see an elderly person there to have his or her hearing tested sitting on the other side of the corridor, in the ‘other’ waiting room, which is just an extension of the Psychology one really. But no one except me is ever in the one quite subtly, but paradoxically ostentatiously (due to its stigmatic nature), marked ‘Psychological Therapies’.

Another point of note is that the corridor is almost always deathly silent, save for the creaking of the door on the rare occasion that it is opened. I’ve gotten used to it now, but for a number of weeks I found it strangely ethereal and disconcerting – the opposite, surely, of the kind of place in which people with mental health problems should find myself. The phrase “as quiet as the grave” often comes to mind (perfect for suicidal types). On the other hand, busy, noisy waiting rooms, such as NewVCB’s (which was also C’s way back at the start of our relationship) freak me out too.

Anyway, it was probably evident to the woman that I was slightly freaked out by her presence, but we politely acknowledged each other then mutually pretended to think about something other than the fact that we were sitting there together. When the bloody door started creaking, the woman passed remark on this irritating feature. This led to a desultory conversation deriding the waiting room, but it eventually developed into a discussion that tangentially referenced why we were both there. It transpired that the woman was there for the first time. By this point, I had convinced myself that I’d got my dates/days/times/life wrong, and that this person was one of C’s other non-existent patients, but when I asked her who she was seeing, it was indeed someone else.

Which led me to another silly internal dilemma. I have never seen anyone from Psychology apart from C and his secretary. The person who has the opposite office from C is some audiology person. It’s like C is the entire department. Or maybe he and his department exist in some alternative plane of dimension, who knows – the former creepiness of the waiting room might lend itself to that fantastical theory. Maybe the waiting room is purgatory and C is its gate-keeper.

OK, I’m babbling and infinitely regressing – the point was, it was bizarre to learn that there really are others working there, including (as in this case) other doctors of clinical psychology. I knew it rationally, of course, but when there is no physical evidence available to you for something, well – the mind is a funny thing. Or at least it is when you are a nutjob.

I tried to reassure the woman, but possibly the admission that I was still in attendance after an entire year merely served to intimidate her. Either way, I never got to see her fabled psychologist, because C arrived to escort me to my weekly doom before him/her/it.

Point of note: my formerly dark hair (the photo on the right is…er…not accurate. It is me, but it doesn’t really represent me. Which is exactly why it’s there) is now bright pink. I bleached it to fuck then slapped some purple muck-rubbish over it on the Tuesday of last week, and even though I failed to obtain the intended purple result, the resulting pink was drastic and eminently satisfactory.

So out came C, expecting to be greeted by a dull-looking fat woman with slightly-off-red-brunette-ish-thing coloured hair, to instead be confronted by a dull looking fat woman with flourescent pink hair. He was visibly taken aback. He started. He stared. Very good. Very good indeed

I wished the other woman luck and followed C to the office. I always hate walking past the secretary’s room. She knows who I am and why I’m there and for some hateful reason, that makes me feel mortified and shamed. The thing is, in general, I do not feel shame for my mental illnesses. Why should I? They are what they are, and they are a part of me. For the most part I am open and easy going about disclosure, sometimes even actual discussion, of same. So why the secretary’s probably-uninterested knowledge in me freaks me out is beyond me.

Well over 900 words and the session hasn’t even begun. That is surely a record even for me.

So. I went in and sat down; he joined me and said, “you’ve dyed your hair.”

Readers, why – why – do people make such inane, asinine statements? Why?! I know that I have dyed my hair, C – I dyed it (or in other cases, I allowed someone else to do so). It wasn’t done when I was dissociated to fuck or anything – and even if it had been, might I not have noticed the change by now? I mean, I’m not at all criticising him for commenting on the change – it was all but unavoidable – but the pointlessness of the actual statement he did offer both irritated and amused me.

“Um…yes, I have…” I said slowly, as if speaking to a child, making a hand gesture intended to convey a WTF? sort of message

“It looks well,” he said, nodding slightly as if self-referentially agreeing.

“Thank you,” I responded.

Two weeks hitherto I would have dissected that small three-word statement of his to death with something along the lines of:

OMFG did he just compliment me? Oh wow! Does that mean he likes me? Does he care about me? Does he genuinely think I look OK? Or is it some sort of psychotherapeutic trick? But hang on, is he even allowed to say that? Isn’t that treading into countertransferential territory that he should be having out with his supervisor? Isn’t that dangerous…? Does he…will he…what if..?

Blah blah blah

Yadda yadda yadda

La la la

Etc etc etc ad infinitum

The fact that I have written that at all, of course, suggests that I am dissecting the living fuck out of what he said, but at the time of his comment, I just nonchalantly accepted the remark as I would nonchalantly accept similar from anyone. That is not my default position around C at all, as you will probably be well aware.

Anyway, we discussed a few boring housekeeping issues for a few minutes, culminating in my telling him that I had an appointment with NewVCB scheduled for Wednesday 2 June. For some reason, this prompted him to ask about the status of my ongoing war with Mr Director-Person.

I advised C that I was finding each response from Mr D-P to be increasingly pathetically amusing. I ranted a bit about how Mr D-P clearly didn’t know the answer to some of my questions, and about how if I were in his position and receiving his salary that I “would damn well know how to do my job.”

(Interesting aside – Detective Inspector Google advises me that Mr D-P does not have a background in mental health at all. He comes from fucking management! Well chosen, Trust…).

Anyhow, given Mr D-P’s closing statement in his latest letter about the assignment of a CPN or SW instead of C to my case, I told C that I thought this was a load of wank because, apart occasionally from shite therapies that don’t work, such members of the CMHT don’t seem – to me – to actually do an awful lot. I know some of you disagree with that – it’s just my observations at this stage really.

He denied that there was a major likelihood of any of them bollocking on about CBT and other such nonsense, but when asked what they would actually do instead, he said something like, “well, you see them at the CMHT, sometimes in your own home, and they support you.”

I laughed in his face. He’d been expecting such a reaction, to be fair – it seems he’s not entirely sure what the rest of the CMHT do either. I suppose I can understand that – back when I was still at work, I didn’t know what some staff in other departments did either. At any rate, I don’t remember the full details of the conversation, but I recollect that I agreed to meet the designated person a few times to see if there could be any value in such liasion. Then something struck me.

“Are they all women?” I asked.

“Well…about 90% are, yeah.”

“Oh no no no, that won’t work at all. I don’t get on well with women at all.” Pause. “At least not here, not in the real world. [Philosophically] If this is even the real world…”

It’s not just that I don’t get on with other women, aside from exchanging the time of day with them or whatever. I’m actually moderately afraid of them. I’m wildly different from any stereotype of a woman, but then so are plenty of people of this gender, so what makes me so bloody special? This is something I will have to think about, but not now, because in whatever way C responded, we didn’t dwell on my woman-fear. What is especially weird about this is that the majority of my online friends are women, including two (K and Annie) that I’ve met. I don’t fear or not get on with any of these ladies – very much the opposite. Well. Who said I was anything other than a walking contradiction of abject strangeness?

During the anti-SW/CPN thread of conversation, I had thrown in a “that’s something else about which I must inform you,” in reference to my ending therapy proposition. He picked up on that, and asked me what the ‘something else’ was.

I was completely honest for once and just told him that I had been seriously considering coming in there that morning, thanking him for all he’d done, and then shaking his hand and leaving. Permanently.

The instantaneous surprise that suddenly permeated the room was palpable. His eyes widened, his brows furled. Again, he actually physically started. In fact, it was more than that – in an apparently instinctive move, he almost defensively sat back, as if wishing to create a distance between us. The expression on his face was not one I’d seen before – the closest it had come to that previously was only about 15 minutes ago, when he’d been taken aback by my dramatic change in appearance. ‘Taken aback’ is too small a phrase for his behaviour this second time round, despite the post title. He was stunned. Absolutely astonished.

This gave me no pleasure, despite my sometime sense of misanthropic sadism. I like C. I feel like I know him, even though I don’t. I don’t want to hurt him or inadvertently question his practice or professionalism, which it felt like I was doing. I felt like an evil bitch that had just stabbed her best mate quite royally and deeply in the back.

I tried to make him feel better by telling him that I had changed my mind, but when he asked why I had done so, I was – once again – entirely honest, and admitted that it was for logistical rather than therapeutic reasons.

“I am certain that as things stand that I will have to be re-referred for therapy in the future,” I told him. “I don’t want the Trust to have ammunition against me – ‘oh, that one’s just a borderline, ignore her – she walked out last time she was in the system, so she can’t have any more treatment”. I know that’s exactly what would happen and I can’t take that chance. So you’re stuck with me for now.”

“We’re going to have to have a conversation on why you were even considering this,” he responded, not unreasonably. “But in terms of actual practical matters, I don’t think that that would be the case at all. You attend appointments as scheduled and are always on time. You can work psychologically and you commit to that work. In my view, you’d be perfectly eligible to have any future referral considered as normal, regardless of whether you previously left therapy by your own choosing.”

“For the avoidance of doubt,” I pressed, “you are telling me that leaving therapy now would not in any way impact negatively upon my position within the CMHT and mental health system in general in the future?”

“I really don’t think it would, no.”

“OK.”

And so began the ‘why?’ conversation. Preamble: I don’t remember all of this. It was a week ago and it was a stressful topic to cover.

My first point was that if I was going to seek private psychotherapy when things with C end – and I am – that it would just be preferable to start to interview potential analysts/therapists now, rather than dither in the pointlessness that I expected to be the remaining time with C.

Why did I suppose said time would be pointless?

I told him that I thought therapy had been generally useless of late, not through any fault of his but entirely through mine, and that ergo it was my expectation that I could expect more of the same. “I come in here every week, and I stare at you or at points in your room, and I say fuck all. We dance around important material because I am not willing or able to discuss it, and the whole thing just becomes an exercise in futility. It’s a waste of your time and mine. It’s not doing anything at the minute, except maintaining (or perhaps even worsening) my sense of re-traumatisation.”

For some reason, he raised his eyebrows and asked me if I felt re-traumatised – I would have thought the answer to that would have been quite obvious given things like this and this.

I was very frank with him and said that I believed, intellectually at least, that I was trying to protect myself from further re-traumatisation. “The most gifted therapist in the world cannot change this state of being in a couple of months,” I told him (an honestly held belief). “I believe that it can, ultimately, be changed – but not in the timeframe you and I have remaining together. So I think that, unconsciously, I’ve shut down and won’t talk about anything important, because I know that’s going to cause me much hurt, and there will in the end be no outlet for that pain.”

I hate talking about the end of therapy. I always direct the conversation away from it when it comes up, in part as it is presently the only thing that makes me cry, and I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to cry because I fucking hate expressions of emotions, but moreover, I don’t want him to know of the strength of my feeling for him. Why? Because it’s so asymmetrical, so quintessentially patient-therapist, so un-returnable, so needy and pathetic. It is A Very Bad Thing.

So for me to almost direct the conversation that way was really rather unusual. OK, so there was an inevitability about it ending up at that juncture, I suppose, but it was the fact that I actually brought it there that was odd.

C sat back in his chair and sighed deeply. Eventually, he sat forward again, and began to reward my candour with some of his own.

“I’ve been in a difficult position,” he admitted. “I’ve said to them [there's always An Enigmatic 'Them', isn't there?], ‘look, this person needs long-term psychotherapy,’ but there’s always issues of targets, or of costs, or of whatever. And we’re trained to mostly only provide short-term therapies.”

Oh. So when you said that curtailing things was your decision, and not the Trust’s, I was right in supposing that that was accurate in only the most technical of senses, was I?

Basically, yes. Apparently, “I could have kept it under the radar. They wouldn’t know how long I have been seeing you for, but I decided the end point on the grounds that I did declare how long we’d been seeing each other to them.”

Dun-dun-DUN! I feckin’ knew it. I feckin’, feckin’ knew it. I resisted the urge to smile a smug smile.

I appreciated his better-late-than-never honesty and told him so. Would it have been nice for him to have kept this apparently most sensitive material ‘under the radar’? Yes, of course it would. But even I don’t expect him to all but lie for me. If he gets in trouble, my continued psychotherapy is not exactly going to be assured.

Anyway, there developed a discussion about part of my thinking about quitting therapy being about punishing him, or finding him less competent that one should be given to expect. I vehemently denied the latter point and demanded that he disabuse himself of the idea were that his belief. As for punishing him, apparently I want him to feel the same sense of loss that I feel as regards the termination of the relationship.

Time for me to be pathetic. “No [looking meek and helpless]. I don’t…I don’t want you to feel bad.”

‘Bad’ and ‘nice’ should be fucking banned from the English language, at least if you are above the age of nine. Fuck’s sake. How child-like and grotesquely piteous can one be?

He made some gesture of acceptance, but continued by saying, “but I think you’re very often angry with me – you blame me for the end of this, you’re angry about the way I sometimes speak to you, content shared between us can infuriate you.”

I denied this once again. “You make t sound like I’m permanently angry with you, and I’m not,” I protested. “Do I get angry with you? Of course I do. That’s to be expected in any interpersonal relationships, and I know there are times when I piss you off too. But I don’t think there’s some big transferential thing here for you to hook on – it’s just normal, surely?”

He claimed that I was angry in that moment (which perhaps I was, I don’t remember) and I started ranting about being furious with the system, which I perpetually am. If he wants to examine a permanent anger, then it’s with The Enigmatic ‘Them’, not him.

I remember saying, “I just wonder how many people end up dead because of something like this. People that could have been helped, but because silly targets and other bureaucratic faff and unlucky postcodes and grubby pieces of shite like that get in the way, they end up at the mercy of their illnesses, are completely fucked and alone, and they see no way out and they top themselves. It’s tragic, C. Tragic.”

My passionate, warrior-like micro-soliloquy was laden with what he would call emotion, and I got the usual, “you look like you want to cry” crap.

This perennial phrase of C’s pisses me off. No, C, of course I do not want to cry. I hate expressing these feelings, let’s not forget. If I am looking or sounding tearful, then that is because it’s visceral and un-chosen. Automatic. Unavoidable. I do not want it! I know I’m playing a silly semantics game here, but it does piss me off.

I continued to try and fight against these Christ-forsaken tears, but I think that they probably won in the end. I didn’t end up breaking down exactly, but I did let a few of the monstrous droplets of salty water pass from my traitorous eyes to my cheeks and fingertips.

Whether it was solicited by him or not, I don’t recall, but I have some memory of, through these tears, admitting to the sense of loss – the sense of grief – that I feel about the cessation of my relationship with him. Eugh. How gruesome an admission that was, and will always be. A Very Bad Thing. A Very Bad Thing, indeed.

And then…

“We’re going to have to leave it there, Pandora.” At least he had the grace to sound apologetic.

One thing we briefly discussed in a housekeeping capacity was to continue things until – if memory serves me correctly – the start of September, rather than have a set number of weeks remaining. He is taking two weeks’ leave over the summer, and it will therefore work out at approximately the same number of sessions as he had previously offered, but I think I might be wrangling one or two extra out of it. Very-tiny-win. Maybe.

I hate these discussions. I was particularly vexed by them in and around Christmas, where it felt like it was all C wanted to talk about. That seemed endlessly circular and futile to me, as if we were avoiding the very issues for which I sought psychotherapy in the first place. And in the main that’s very much still my view. Still and withall, though, it’s hard to deny that a lot of my attempts to avoid the topic lie in the very obvious points that I simply don’t want, or feel unable, to ever be without him.

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Anyway, I may report on the holiday in due course, but for now I need your advice, my precious lovelies.  I’ve been thinking seriously since I last saw C – and before, for that matter – of just quitting therapy.   I will outline my reasons and the pros and cons of this, but whatever the case I would really value your advice or tales of your experiences of same.   Thanks so much to all of you on Twitter and Facebook that have already provided such counsel.

Basically, I feel that the whole situation with C is completely out of my control, and this is doing my head in.  I’m not exactly a control freak, but I know that if things are in my hands, then at least I am not in as vulnerable a position than I would be in the case where the power is firmly in the hands of others.  The therapy is ending in – what? –  seven or eight weeks anyway, so why not take control of things in one of the few ways I now can?  What are those few weeks going to actually even do, apart from fuck up my life even more?

I’m also at the stage where I believe firmly that therapy is thoroughly re-traumatising me.  I accept that a certain amount of this is inevitable – indeed, I’m sure, necessary – in trauma therapy, but the thing is in most cases the therapist continues working with the client at least until he or she has been able to overcome that re-traumatisation (or, in the worst case scenario, not be quite so hideously haunted by it).  This will not be the case with me, unless C can miraculously process all my traumatic memories – those of systematic, long-term child sexual abuse, abandonment/rejection, bullying and betrayal – in a few pathetic weeks.  He doesn’t even know about it all (not because I have deliberately withheld information, simply as some things have to take priority), so how can he?  Basically, I am completely re-traumatised and it is all but impossible that I am going to leave therapy in a different state.

Useful work is not even being done at this stage, in my view, because I’ve become terribly defensive again.  At least, I assume that it is defensiveness – it never feels exactly like that in session, it’s just that I can’t seem to talk about anything worthwhile anymore.  But of course I can rationalise that behaviour out of session: I know that I’m teetering on the precipice of being hurt with a pain unparalleled in years, so it makes sense for me to clam up in order that I can protect myself from being even more at C’s mercy than I already am.

So, pros and cons of ending therapy of my own accord.

Pros

• Regaining control of the situation.
• Earlier transition to a private (and hence more reliable) therapist, and an earlier start at interviewing those on the shortlist.
• Satisfaction of beating C at his own game.
• Reduction of further re-traumatisation.
• Reduction of further wastage of 50 minutes each week on both sides.

Cons

• The Trust will almost certainly interpret this as typical borderline behaviour and note further stigmatic bullshit all over my medical notes.
• The Trust will consider the fact that I quit therapy of my own volition in any future referrals and presumably respond with a giant ‘fuck off’.
• I might miss C and end up regretting finishing interaction with him before the last possible minute that I could have done.
• W claims that therapy seems to have been working of late, presumably owing to his objective and detailed reading of my material here.  It certainly was doing so, for a while, though I don’t really think it is at present.  But if it is, then I could be ‘blowing it’.

One thing I am going to do – to wind C and the Trust up if nothing else – is demand some material from them.  One, I want copies of the entire files that C and NewVCB hold on me.  They will be requested, respectively, tomorrow and at my psychiatric appointment next Wednesday.  Two, I intend to launch a Freedom of Information request into the minutiae of certain Trust expenditure, so as I can quote the Trust’s almost inevitable wastage in my ongoing dispute with Mr Director-Person (more on that cunt later today).

So.  In conclusion, I would really, really appreciate all your thoughts on this matter.  Any views of any persuasion are most welcome.  Should I quit therapy with C before he quits it for me, or should I ride it out to the end?

Thank you all.  x

I am going on holiday this evening. Ergo, I will be (mostly) in absentia until at least 24 May.

Unlike the preceeding hours before the last time I went on holiday, I am not in a good mood. I am, in fact, muderously livid. C is to blame (surprise surprise), even though it’s not his fault.

So, the latest on the wanky questionnaires is that either I have DID or I’m exaggerating my dissociative symptoms. He tried to dress it up, but that’s what it comes down to whatever he says.

So typical of borderlines, yes? Neurotic, attention-seeking, self-obsessed, manipulative narcissists.

Beyond that the session was thouroughly pointless. It was just more of me slagging myself off endlessly. He didn’t even bother to defend me this time, like he has been known to do, because apparently I am trying to manipulate him into doing so or something.

Some gems:

I’m a five year old fantasist trapped in a womans’ body. A pretty smart five year old, but a five year old nonetheless.

I’m an immature, pathetic, stupid waste of space. Well…not stupid. But stupid all the same. Just not stupid-stupid. But the stupid kind of stupid. Except not actually stupid, just…stupid.

[On seeing Trust headed paper being used, as intended, for rough notes] You do realise that I’m internally raging, don’t you? That exemplifies your pathetic public sector inefficiency. No wonder the Trust has no money. Such wastage. [Genuinely seething inside - proper, murderous anger].

I’m sure there was more but I can’t recall it all and anyway, I’ll write about this session properly when I get back from my travels.

My mother had called me during the session so I called her back to see what she wanted when I left. Mr Director-Person had finally responded.

My analysis of the NICE guidelines etc is apparently quite correct, but – it now emerges – the NICE guidelines don’t automatically apply in Northern Ireland. Well, that’s brilliant, isn’t it? Great job. How eminently rea-fucking-surring to know that we are safeguarded in this country as well as the rest of the UK. OUT-FUCKING-STANDING.

Blah blah blah…we are developing a PD service…we welcome “service user” (I fucking hate that term) involvement…please register your interest with this tosser at this hospital…

Readers, I will. In fact, if they do indeed accept me on board, I will turn it into a personal crusade. I will twat the system from inside the bastarding system.

Blah de blah…[C] and [NewVCB] have agreed to put you under the care of either a CPN or a mental health social worker…details to be worked out closer to the time…

Go and fuck yourselves. What is some CPN going to fucking do? Remind me it might be a good idea if I fucking washed occasionally? Attempt to patronise me with CBfuckingT?! No. No. I need psychotherapy. If I am not to receive psychotherapy, then you can all just go and die, you supercilious, self-interested bunch of despicable cunts from hell.

So that, dearest readers, is the latest. I am sure I’ll calm down a bit – but probably only when we finally reach our apartments tonight, as hanging around airports is supremely frustrating, and flying is supremely boring.

I have got a data abroad package on my phone so will probably be about occasionally on Twitter – I might even post here if you’re (un)lucky. Otherwise, thank you all for reading and thank you for your unwavering support and friendship.

Much love

Pandora x

Apparently, in the case of the Multidimensional Inventory of Dissociation, C had emailed the author of the questionnaire – Paul Dell – for a detailed manual of scoring and wanted to fully investigate that. Apparently Dell had then offered an alternative scenario; he would be willing to score my results himself, subject to my taking some further questionnaires and allowing my results to be published in future research.

“It’ll be entirely anonymised and subsumed into more widespread results,” C pointed out reassuringly, “and it’s totally up to you if that’s something that you’d like to do.”

I confirmed that I would be more than happy to participate – “subject, however, to my seeing the resultant study.”

“Of course,” C nodded. I told him, therefore, to go ahead and tell Paul Dell that I would do it.

He proceeded to remind me that this was my last session prior to a two week gap, as I am going to Turkey (again) tomorrow night. I said to C that in actuality I could have attended the session as the flight was much later than I understood, but that since I had already told him I wasn’t coming that it didn’t matter.

“The appointment’s there,” C replied. “I keep the Thursday mornings for you, I’ve got no one else coming in.”

Result! I can maintain my illusion of being his only patient for another few weeks.

Or can I..? I confirmed that, if he was willing, I would in fact take tomorrow’s appointment after all, and he reached out for his diary to write me in. And…and…I saw something vile and horrible and despicable. I saw writing, writing that denoted a meeting of some sorts, scribbled in C’s dreadful handwriting for about midday.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. No no no no no no.  That is not allowed.  But wait, it’s OK. It was just an appointment with a colleague, or perhaps it was group therapy. He’s allowed to conduct group therapy, just not individual therapy with others. So it was something like that. It was not another individual client.  No.  No!

The next week’s meeting agreed, he asked me where I wanted to start. I shrugged and commenced the usual silence that I seem to be so stunningly good at. I said to him, “and here begins the customary dance of idiotic silence.”

He smiled, and went to say something, but it was the day of the General Election here, so something compelled me to talk to him about that.  I told him that I was excited and agitated in equal measure.

C asked me if I was going to vote.

“Of course,” I replied, aghast that he could harbour the smallest doubt that I would do so.   Without thinking, I added, “are you?”

This made him laugh quite a lot, presumably as I am not meant to ask questions about his private life.  Nevertheless, I refused to take my eyes off him until he answered.

He stopped laughing and eventually said, “yes, I am actually.”

“Good,” I responded. “I was about to lecture you if you’d said ‘no’, and I don’t care how much it is not my place [he laughs, perhaps in a slightly bemused fashion]. It is an abdication of adult responsibility not to vote, so I am very glad to hear that you are going to do so.”

A brief discussion followed during which we discussed which coverage would be better for the sit-up-all-night-election-party that A and I were holding just for the two of us.  I said that we would, in all probability, watch the BBC – Sky newsreaders are cunts, and ITV is sensationalist, tabloid bollocks. C suggested that I try Channel 4 who were running a sardonic alternative to the usual coverage, with people such as Charlie Brooker.

It was odd to have something vaguely approaching a normal conversation with C. It is not the first time that it’s happened, but it’s always strangely pleasing when it does. I have this mentality, presumably some sort of attachment-related coping mechanism, that he only exists for the time that I am with him each week, and in a sense hearing or learning that he has ordinary, outside knowledge reminds me that this is not the case.  Well, of course I know that it’s not the case – but I also don’t know it at the same time, if you know what I mean.  It’s good to think of him as a real person, but that understanding inevitably comes with certain caveats: he’s allowed to exist outside my therapy as long as he has similar interests to me, is single, not a father, is fixated with psychology and his job, not treating anyone else, and not particularly popular.

Hmmm.  Not a lot to ask there or anything.

The ‘normal’ conversation continued with me bragging about my blog having been online for a year, and he asked me if I celebrated.  I admitted to having blown some money on a new laptop, concluding that evidently, yes, I had celebrated.  I went on to tell him, in relation to this and the previous topic of conversation, that I had just finished writing a series of posts on the mental health pledges of the Northern Ireland political parties.

“They ranged from very encouraging to totally abysmal,” I told him, which prompted him to request details.

I told him that the best policy was from the Alliance Party, and I have to admit that there was an underlying motive involved in this line of discussion.  A reading of the Alliance’s (and some of the others) manifestos on mental health makes clear that sustained and long-term psychotherapy is considered a crucial element of treatment for most serious mental illnesses. That does not, self-evidently, tally with C’s decision to end the therapy in nine weeks’ time.  I wanted to try and make the point, but subtly (as of course when we fixate on that topic it wastes time that should be devoted to other issues).  In the end, though, I don’t think the point really came across – or if it did, he didn’t comment in any meaningful fashion.

Onward. At this point I told him that bringing the topic of politics to a therapy session was an utterly preposterous pursuit. The horrible, infuriating silence followed, and unsurprisingly I was shortly laying into myself for being a time-wasting tosspot.

I asked why he had told me the previous week that the silences or, more accurately, my self-critical reactions to them, were insightful for him.

“You already know that I start into an endless barrage of self-castigation at these points.  Why do you need to see further examples of it?”

“It’s about how we resolve that together,” he replied.  “It may seem useless to you, but I think work is being done during these periods.”

There was a pause, and then he continued, by saying, “I think part of your frustrations are related to the fact that our time together is finite [no no no no no, denial denial denial denial denial], but I think it’s more than that.  It’s a deeply instilled issue of self-blame and self-disgust.”

This inescapably led on to a roundabout discussion of the child abuse issues, given that one of my biggest examples of self-blame and hatred is that.  There was a lot of stuff in my head about it that I wanted somehow to convey to him, but I knew that it was almost impossible that I would do it verbally. I tried to project it to him psychically, but that was, of course, a thoroughly pointless endeavour.  C may be one of the most insightful men I’ve ever met, but he is not a mind-reader.

I kept fidgeting with my hair, my ring, my scabs and scars.  He commented that I was obviously in a dilemma.

He said, “I can see you’re scared, and being scared is OK.  You have to allow yourself to experience that kind of feeling in a safe environment.

“Furthermore,” he continued, “I know one of your concerns about all this stuff is your belief that you’re some sort of ‘whore’; I know you worry about what I’ll think of you.”

I wanted to avoid questioning along those lines, as it would probably have led to a discussion as to why I give a toss about what he thinks of me.  Fuck you, attachment – fuck you so very, very much. We’ll leave you until another time.

Instead, I said, “I don’t feel this particularly, but intellectually it seems to me if I don’t voice stuff to you in this regard then I can pretend that it is not real.”

He agreed and said that doing so would bring up strange and frightening emotions – shame, disgust, sadness, fear etc – and said that he thought that I was terrified of experiencing these kinds of feelings. “Obviously you don’t want those emotions to be real, just as you don’t want what happened to you to be real,” he added.

We briefly talked about how writing about stuff here was considerably easier than even attempting to talk about it, which culminated in my haughty query, “how does talking about it make any bloody difference anyway?!  How can that actually help to make me feel better?”

He saw this as some sort of critique of the effectiveness of therapy, and asked me if I thought that the process had helped. I thought about it, and concluded that it had – in subtle ways.

“But nevertheless,” I pressed, “doesn’t it seem bizarre that just talking about something changes brain chemistry and neural pathways and make you feel better? I read somewhere recently that therapy does induce such brain changes.  But how?”

Out came the whiteboard for some visual depiction of what he felt the process was:

The auditory accompaniment to this was that in simple PTSD the trauma memories are outside the autobiographical memories of the sufferer, and present themselves in normal consciousness, therefore, as intrusive, distressing flashbacks. In the case of complex or repetitive trauma, all this is still the case - but the flashbacked, unconscious memories present in a particularly difficult fashion, and strong dissociative and sometimes psychotic symptoms can enter the consciousness also.  Therapy seeks to reintegrate the unconscious, repressed trauma memories and one’s normal, autobiographical ones. This means that, although the memories will still inevitably be painful, they will not be experienced in the same horribly flashback-y, uncontrollably stressful ways.  In doing so, C assumes, this helps correct broken neural pathways – though I have to bear in mind that he is “not an expert in neurobiology,” apparently.

“Successful reintegration is possible,” he assured me.

I was aware that I had seduced him once more into an intellectual dialogue, but I felt captivated by the material on the whiteboard in a different kind of way too, and felt that it was relevant to our discussion.  It (and he) was postulating something that to me seemed utterly inconceivable and impossible.

I just stared at the thing.  It is possible to experience this stuff as part of your normal life timeline?  That’s ridiculous.  It cannot be.

For some reason I was overcome with sadness and regret.  What he was proposing – reintegration of the traumatised self along with the ‘everyday’ me – was too massive to contemplate.  I started battering myself around the head (literally) to cope with the hideous enormity of it all.

He said he could see that I had been really sad, and that I was playing my usual game of trying to avoid experiencing that.

“You had to suppress emotions when you were a child just to survive,” he said gently.  “When you tried to express to others what was going on – your mother, for example – you effectively had it thrown back in your face, and had to suppress those emotions too, again just to survive.  This is a defence mechanism that you’ve always known, always had to use, but it is safe here to show that pain.  Suppressing it then was a necessity, but doing so now leads to all sorts of problems.  So experiencing it now is also a necessity.”

After a brief pause designed to let me take this information in, he continued and referred back to our regular discussions on schemas in BPD. “The healthy adult tries to protect the abused child by suppressing this,” he said.  “It’s always been the way she has handled it, but it’s no longer effective.”

Eventually I told him that experiencing and expressing emotions was the ultimate sign of weakness in a human being.

“Again,” he responded, “maybe then – for reasons of survival – it was ‘weak’ to feel emotions or to show them.  You were effectively alone, after all.  But I would reiterate that that was then – you need to feel this now.”

There was a silence during which I fought to control myself, my head bowed, my lips quivering.  The timing of this was horribly unfortunate; he cleared his throat guiltily and said, “we’re going to have to leave it there for today, Pandora.”

I gave in and allowed myself some tears.  “I can’t leave in this state, I’m sorry,” I whimpered.

He was so nice.  “It’s OK,” he said in that sweet, gentle tone that he employs in these situations.  “There’s no rush.” [EPIC WIN!!!]

Indicating the whiteboard, I said, “it’s too much. I can’t even begin to conceive of what you’re talking about. I don’t have a frame of reference before this, I don’t know how to do it, I don’t know what it’s like.”

“Of course you don’t,” he affirmed. “It’s all you’ve ever known.”

For some reason this made me even sadder. There’s something overwhelmingly tragic about your life being ruined at an age so young that you haven’t even had the chance to experience ‘normal’ formative memories.

C said a little bit more about experiencing and expressing emotions, but to be honest I can’t remember the minutiae of his soliloquy.  Eventually I once again castigated myself for showing weakness in his presence.

He reiterated once more that he felt that it was not weakness.

“Do you want a tissue?” he asked.

“No!” I spat defiantly.  Then, sheepishly, “yes.”

He chuckled lightly and pushed the box towards me.

“Did you tell me last week that you’re going to a Metallica concert on Tuesday [11 May, yesterday]?” he questioned.

I responded in the affirmative.

“OK,” he said, “if you see me there, don’t worry – I’m not a hallucination [wry, but comforting, smile].”

I had wondered if he was attending; I know he has an interest in decent music. “You’re going then?” I checked, rather pointlessly.

“Yes.”

“Are you standing?”

“Yes.”

“Me too. Very good.”

Very good. Hahaha. Mistress of the Understatement, me. What I really meant was that there was joy joy deep in my heart.

By this point I had mostly recovered myself, so I said, “well, I suppose I’ll see you under the next government then.”

“Yes,” he replied, “and we’ll have seen Metallica!” I detected slight enthusiasm.

“I hope you enjoy it,” I said.

“You too,” he replied, as he opened the door for me. “Take care of yourself.”

And so it ended for another week, with a pathetic nine sessions – including tomorrow morning’s – remaining.

In the end I didn’t see him at the concert, but it was a strange feeling to know that I could have done. Part of me was hugely excited by seeing him in a vaguely normal social situation, yet part of me was horrified and terrified.  I mean, he doesn’t exist outside therapy.  He just doesn’t.

I had tried to organise an appointment with Lovely GP this week, but due to the holiday, C and the anticipated hangover from the gig, I didn’t get a chance. Instead, I persuaded my mother to go in my place and either request Diazepam for me, or pretend she needed it herself. As it happens, my mother has a rather worrying…um…thing? sore? Gash?…on her ear, so she wanted to see LGP about this anyway. So she went this morning.

Regarding her ear, it is with considerable uneasiness that I have to report that LGP was worried.  He’s given her antibiotic cream, but has instructed her to be back with him in exactly two weeks, at which point – if the thing has not cleared up – LGP intends to refer her to a specialist.  My mother and I have been feigning nonchalance around each other all day, but the ‘c’ word floats palpably in the air despite it. My only comfort is that, with LGP, she will be in good hands.

I almost feel guilty writing about the appointment’s direct effects on me, but hey. Without question, LGP wrote a script for me for Diazepam and apparently went on to compliment me as “incredibly articulate”.  He asked how I was in general, and my mother opined that she felt that perhaps things were slightly better, but that she was worried and extremely disappointed that C was cutting the therapy short.

LGP asked if she (and I) felt that the process was or had been helpful, and she said that we both did.

“In that case,” he said, “I’ll make a few phone calls.”

He did go on to warn that he could make no guarantees, and that sometimes therapists concern themselves about a client being too reliant on them and thus try to make the client cope on their own.  I really do get that, but surely they should first explore that reliance?  Anyhow, LGP said that if we felt the psychotherapy had been useful then he would do his best to make a difference.  I’ve put on an appointment to see him myself when I get back from Turkey, because I want to make it clear that this is a critical time with C.  I am prepared to tell him about the sexual abuse – he is so delightfully kind and gentle that I trust him with that information implicitly.  C can’t tell him, of course, as that would breach confidence – but…hang on.  Since C doesn’t work at the hospital on Wednesdays, LGP won’t have been able to speak to him yet.  I can tell C in the morning that he is welcome to share any and all details with LGP.

LGP was fantastic last year when Psychiatry were being complete tossers, so one never knows. I’m trying not to get my hopes raised here, but I have to cling on to something, because the idea that I will have to face the world alone within a few months is too terrible to contemplate.

—

Please note – I began writing this post about a week ago, but malaise and, later, agitation over the stupid election (something on which I should comment, though Z’s observations and my own comments on this Mental Nurse post, as well as my conclusion to the election special series, may provide enough of the comment required), so forgive me if the post is disjointed and rambling. It’s also worth bearing in mind that this session was not my most recent session with C – this post relates to Thursday 29 April. 6 May’s instalment will hopefully be delivered in the next day or two.

—

Starting with the session that followed the one detailed here, I had a total of 10 psychotherapeutic sessions remaining – and that includes four to deal with the severance of the relationship (as if that’s going to be enough!), meaning only six weeks of actual therapy remained. Fuck-a-doodle-fucking-do.

As if that were not bad enough in and of itself, how do you think I responded in the session in question? By wasting the entire fucking session. Yay, Pandora, well done, girl! Way to go! Or, in other words – what an epic, epic fail.

It started, as far as C believes anyway, when he was late. He arrived in the building at 9.30am, which is the time I’m due to start seeing him – he stopped by me in the waiting room and apologised, saying he would just be a few minutes. That really didn’t bother me that much, so long as those extra minutes were added on at the end, but C seems convinced that he unsettled me by being late. I don’t think he did, but what do I know about my own subconscious? (For the record, that comment is semi-serious, not merely facetious. My subconscious is a mystery to me).

Anyhow, when we finally settled in the room together, he apologised again and said the traffic had been heavier than normal. I told him that I used to be late for everything and had become so neurotic about it that I was in fact now always early. He pointed out that I’d never been late for a session with him, and I said that that was my point; I’m always 20 minutes early now (which is actually probably a good thing, given my parking OCD ((Disraeli, the car, has to be exactly lined up in the middle of a parking space, on all dimensions – front, back, left, right – and I have been known to take a tape measure to ensure this)) which can take a lot of time to sate).

He then asked me how I was for time, and would I be happy just to add the 10 lost minutes onto the end of the session. Of course I was thus happy. That means there’s no bastard coming in straight after me, YAY! I had understood that the reason for psychotherapy sessions being 50 minutes long was to give the therapist 10 minute’s grace in the hour to prepare for the next client. With C this is clearly not the case, and it’s not the first time we’ve gone beyond the 10.20 limit. YAY. C is all mine.

Anyway. Silence. What a bloody surprise. He gazed off towards the bookcase, I stared at his blank computer monitor.

He broke it by mentioning he’d received the dissociation questionnaires on Monday, but he said he wanted to leave discussion of them until next week as, although he had scored them, he hadn’t a chance to look at them in considerable detail.

I told him about my concerns about how the questionnaires failed to articulate their frame of reference vis a vis the frequency of symptoms, and he admitted that he hadn’t considered that before he’d received my responses. I proceeded, then, to confront him on some of the points that had annoyed me, namely those questions that enquired as to whether or not you had faked or exaggerated symptoms in order to get attention.

Taking my lead from an astute comment left by Wounded Genius, I asked C, “is the questionnaire designed to incorporate BPD tendencies? You know, given that we’re all so hideously manipulative and all.”

He kind of winced a little but then admitted that this was indeed the case, in part anyway, and that there were also a number of PTSD strands to it.

I protested my innocence. “I’ve played up some medical problems, I’ll admit that,” I told him. “But only to ensure I have been given the treatment required, as opposed to doing it to seek attention. And I’ve never done it regarding my psychological problems.”

C looked at me shiftily. He said, eventually, “but wouldn’t you agree that there are maybe times when you don’t think your mental health issues are being taken seriously, and that you feel you need to scream at the top of your lungs for someone to pay attention?”

I pretended to think about this for a minute, and then denied it. Which felt sincere at the time but now sounds like a complete fabrication. I asked him to exemplify his perceived position.

“There was an incident after Christmas,” he recalled, “wherein you said something like, ‘what do I have to do to get you bloody people to take notice of the seriousness of this illness?’ Do you remember that?”

I did. Fuck. Caught-out. That was only a week or two before I tried (and sadly failed miserably) to top myself, which whilst done in the midst of a very serious depressive episode was also partly catalysed by his apparent determination to abandon me.

I think I said something to the effect of that having indeed taken place, but that it hadn’t meant I had made up or hyperbolised anything.

He did seem to accept this point in fairness to him, and went on to say that part of the reason for these awkward questions was to form a ‘validity scale’ – ie. to catch out people who just randomly circle high figures because they want sympathy and attention. He basically refuted the idea that he felt that was applicable to me.

“Your dissociation scores are raised,” he continued (well, isn’t that a surprise). “But I want to explore them in detail before we discuss them. So are you OK to discuss this next week?”

I responded in the affirmative, and that conversation desisted. The silence returned.

It was C that once again interrupted it, by advising me that despite NewVCB‘s assertions that she wanted to talk to him, she hadn’t yet phoned him. He wanted to know if I knew what it was that NewVCB had specifically wanted to ask him about.

[I had written an entire 900-word rant here about C cutting the therapy short; this was catalysed because I'd had a similar discussion with NewVCB when I saw here in the aforelinked appointment. But the rant is just a repetition of many rants I've had here and just takes up space on this post. I've saved it but there's no point in including it here. Essentially, when asked about what NewVCB wanted, I said that I didn't know, which was largely true, as she wanted to ask C about the flashbacks and psychoses, of which she was already aware.]

I went on to tell C that NewVCB had increased my daily dose of Quetiapine by 100mg (to a total of 400mg). To my considerable bewilderment, he seemed to be surprised by this.

“Why did she do that?” he asked, his brow furrowed slightly.

Christ on a fucking stick, C. I wouldn’t have detailed my trauma-induced hallucinations to you last week or anything, would I?

Through irritated gritted teeth, I explained NewVCB’s (surely rather obvious) rationale: that although she reckoned that the work that I need(ed) to do was primarily psychological, that she was concerned that I’d become floridly psychotic and/or distressed to the point where I’d be unable to work in that way with C. She has always insisted that my ability to do so is key to my prognosis, and such bothersome symptoms as I was having would, if left untreated, inevitably affect my ability to engage in active psychotherapy.

This explanation assuaged C’s inexplicable-to-me concerns and he nodded, which led to a lull in the conversation.

And so it began. Again. A long, meaningless, drivelsome silence. He once more gazes towards the bookcase, I choose to stare blankly at the noticeboard behind him this time. All cogs of both minds almost palpably whir, and whir speedily at that, but nobody verbalises those cognitive processes, those deeply considered thoughts.

In my case, it rather predictably led to the boringly typical internal battle of Me vs Me:

Speak. Speak to him, damn you, speak!
But what do I say?!
Just something tangible about why you#re in therapy in the first place You need to engage with him.
*cowers whines and whimpers*

Etc etc, blah blah blah. The usual pointlessly stupid bollocks in which two sides of my mind constantly engage. I kept thinking that I should be using this time to discuss Paedo, or my miserable years at school, or at least something about my mentalism, rather than getting into the usual navel-gazing therapy-about-therapy-as-seen-through-silence wankery. But I just couldn’t open my mouth to utter anything constructive whatsoever.

I believe that it was he that broke the silence, with the not-exactly-surprising “what’s going through your head?” question. A question that I’ve heard 350 million times before, on these frustrating occasions in which I seem all but helpless but to engage in this idiotic pursuit of uncharacteristic-in-every-other-walk-of-my-existence laconism.

I responded to C’s enquiry by laying into myself with a tonne’s weight of venom. I protested (deja vu, anyone?) by accusing myself of wasting both his time and mine. I was a useless, denomic bitch of Satan, I was moronic, stupid, idiotic, horrible, hateful – yadda yadda yadda.

C said, “what is it about silence here that terrifies you so?”

I said that I was not terrified but angry. With myself. And that I would metaphorically (and, quite possibly, literally) beat myself about the head for the next week for being such a time-wasting bitch.

“Why? And is there nothing we can take from that – from your silences, from your anger?” he persisted.

Oh here we go. The inevitable ‘what does the silence and self-berating actually reveal?’ bullshit.

He continued in this vein by saying that the silence was insightful, but I’m not so sure. What I didn’t reveal was that I would be notably less furious with myself if we didn’t have the stupid timeframe against us. I wouldn’t be happy, not at all, but at least I could accept that I was not under the pressure to resolve some of my difficulties that I actually am.

I don’t remember what I said to him. I certainly didn’t tell him the above, because the whole “you’re angry about the ending” thing was a dead horse that we flogged, flogged again and the flogged some fucking more around Christmas time, and it was a colossal waste of time. I did not want to go back there.

However I responded, I was interested to hear C then start blaming himself for unsettling me by being late. It certainly hadn’t consciously crossed my mind.

He went on, “and then I started rattling on about…um…business-y?…matters.”

“Housekeeping,” I corrected.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Housekeeping. Between being late and matters of housekeeping, I probably didn’t put you in the best frame of mind to commence this session.”

There followed a discussion about the inherent weirdness of the therapeutic setting. I pointed out that, when you really think about it, the notion of sitting down like clockwork one morning a week and pouring your heart out as if on some sort of cue was pretty preposterous.

“It’s alright for you,” I sighed. “This is what you do, you sit over there and you psychologise people [notwithstanding the fact that I am his only client. *clears throat* No one else but me. *whistles into fantasyland*]. But from the client’s situation, it really is bizarre to suddenly have to turn everything on, and 50 minutes later, turn it all off again.”

He ever so astutely observed that I evidently put great pressure on myself to talk in psychotherapy. Oh really, C? I had NO IDEA! You clever psychologist, you!!!

This reminded me of the old adage that rears its perennial head in job interview settings that stress and pressure are not always bad things. You know the situation I mean…

Interviewer: So, Pandora. You do know that this is a very demanding and busy role. Can you tell me how you would deal with the stress and pressure that you will inevitably encounter?

Pandora: Why, yes, Interviewer, I most certainly can. My view is that working under pressure can actually be a highly positive thing. Pressure drives people, it spurs them on. It enables you to get the absolutely best results that you can achieve, but also within a demanding timeframe.

Blah de blah. I quoted this example at C, calling it a “crap” situation (due to its intrinsic falsity)

He said, half-smiling, half-grimacing (or so I thought), “does that make me the crap interviewer then?”

That had not been what I had intended to imply at all. I had merely been trying to suggest that shit and all as the example had been, the idea that pressure could drive results had validity – and that that could be aptly applied to my interactions with C.

Instead of rationally pointing this out, I worked myself into a frenzied panic that I had offended him and started apologising like a ridiculously apologetic thing. “That’s not what I meant at all, I’m sorry!” I whined at him.

He said it was OK and seemed to dismiss it, but I was convinced that he thought I hated him and that he therefore hated me, so after trying to get over it for a few minutes, I started blathering again.

“I feel really bad about that, C, I’m sorry, that’s not what I think, not at all.” (Pa-thet-ic).

By this point he seemed slightly bemused by my reaction. He said, decisively, “Pandora, it’s alright. It was just a comment; I didn’t interpret it as some [waves his hands for dramatic effect] big transferential thing!” [laughs a little to show me it's no big deal].

Transference. Oh, transference. If only you knew, C. If only you knew a quarter of it.

Actually, who am I trying to kid? Two characteristics that are at the heart of C’s person (at least the persona that I know) are intelligence and, crucially, tremendous insight. He probably knows more about the nature of my transference issues that I do. He’s brought the issue up a few times in the past, quite subtly for the most part (although I too am intelligent and insightful, so I know what he’s doing), and there is no real problem from either side in the ensuing discussions, but of late we have been tackling such profoundly core stuff that (in part at my behest) we’ve avoided the whole him-and-me thing. That’s troubling in the sense that it’s going to be unresolved before therapy ends, but then what choice do I have? It’s that, or it’s the issues for which I am in therapy in the first place. I choose the latter.

Anyway, after some more silence, C said that he was aware that I was going on holiday after the following session and would be “on leave” as he initially erroneously put it for two weeks (as it happens, I’m now only going to miss one week – I am going on Thursday after all – but I’ll discuss that in the post about the next session). He said that he thought it might be useful for us to have some discussion in the following week about the abuse, but that he was concerned that I would have that left hanging over me whilst I was away, and that he didn’t want to put me through conversation about the topic in question if I did not feel that I could handle it.

I mused about this for a few moments, eventually concluding (mentally) that yes, I’d probably be OK, largely thanks to my increased dosage of Quetiapine. But then of course this led to worry too: I feel that if I say that medication has helped me that I am indirectly insulting him, and the last thing I wish to do is upset him or make him feel inadequate.

For once I was completely honest with him and admitted to that concern, and he was actually quite good about it. I can’t remember the exact words, but he said something to the effect that just because I found medication helpful didn’t mean that I (or indeed he) felt that psychotherapy was ergo totally sidelined and useless. If anything, he seemed to find my concern mildly amusing. Some people would find the fact that he occasionally expresses amusement at incidents like this quite irritating or patronising. I, on the contrary, find it reassuring. I have absolutely no idea why that is.

And thus arrived the end of the session. He said, “we’ll try and discuss some of that stuff next week then, if you feel comfortable with it, and we’ll add – I don’t know – 10 minutes on at the end to look at the dissociation questionnaires. Is that OK?”

*scoffs* “Is that OK”? Is That OK? Hahaha. A mere extra second of your time is a valued, longed-for second. So yes, C, it very definitely is ‘OK’.

He showed me to the door, opened it for me [nice touch, that], and told me that I wasn’t to be too hard on myself (re: my self-directed vituperations vis a vis my perceived time-wasting).

It’s hard not to do so – so desperately hard. I’m horribly acutely aware of the 10 (now nine) remaining sessions. It permeates the core of my being, every atom of my body, every neuron of my mind. And it’s fucking unbearable.

The Blog-and-life-inertia-itis is compounded by the fact that I’ve completely blocked out most of this session from my conscious memory. I remember how things started, and I remember how they ended. What happened in the ‘middle’ portion of the meeting is frankly anyone’s guess; it’s almost like the chunk of my brain where the recollective (yes it is a word) neurons pertaining to those 30 or 40 minutes were stored has been cut out with a sharp knife. Well, así es la vida. On the bright side, I’ve always wanted a lobotomy.

As far as this session went, with the exception of a few minutes at the end, I’m not sure how much it really added to what had happened in the last meeting and the one before that – how could I be thus sure, however, when I don’t remember what the sodding hell happened. We started with the usual crap of silence – he asks where to begin – I say I don’t know – silence, which in fact has almost become the subject a parody between us now.

C was the first one to cave in. I’d noticed a couple of sheets sitting on the coffee table that sits between us (where the hateful, cheap tissues are housed for when mentals ((or rather, ‘mental’ – singular – because of course I am his only patient *cough*)) start bawling their eyes out), and was interested to see him gesture towards them.

He explained that he had obtained dissociation scales to measure just how extreme my ‘general’ episodes of dissociation, derealisation and depersonalisation were, as well to determine the seriousness of the dissociative psychoses. He had two such survey things; one is a standard dissociation scale, the second a much more in-depth questionnaire. He had apparently initially hoped I could fill them in during or at the end of the session, but given the length of the longer one (218 questions or something), he’d decided it was best if I filled them in at home then just posted them back to him.

He then mused about when he might receive them back, supposing it would be Tuesday (tomorrow). I was surprised to learn that he does not work ‘there’ on Tuesdays or Wednesdays; I missed the opportunity to ask what, if anything, he does on those days, but if I had to guess, I would say those are research days as I am aware that he has been involved in research in the past at least.

At any rate, he advised me not to sell myself short in the questionnaires; he feared I’d downplay the severity of my symptoms.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “you obviously don’t want to exaggerate them either, so…”

“So go with my first instinct,” I finished, to which he nodded. “I’ve always been advised when completing psychiatric questionnaires that I should basically go with the first rating that my mind thinks is appropriate.”

He agreed with this and asked if I had any questions regarding why he wanted me to fill these in.

Of course, I did. “Are you going to use these to bin me?” I enquired.

For some reason he initially smiled at this but, seeing from my facial expression that my question was serious, he desisted from that with very quick effect. “Not at all,” he replied.

I asked what, then, he hoped to achieve through the exploration of my answers to the questions, and he said something about it being able to inform deeply the way we work together. Apparently it could give him great insight.

I filled in the two questionnaires that afternoon, but found mysef to be somehwat irritated by the way in which they scale dissociation. Both ask what percentage of the time you have symptom x; for example:

Some people have the experience of finding themselves in a place and have no idea how they got there. [Thanks for not patronising me there, questionnaire, thanks very much ineed].

Circle a number to show what percentage of the time this happens to you

0% 10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90 100%

(Source)

When it says “what percentage of the time” what exactly does that mean? All the time? Times when you’re unwell? In the above example, how can that possibly be 100% of the time – surely that’s impossible. If you didn’t know why you were somewhere every time you were somewhere, which is a state of permanence, then…no, fuck it, it’s too late in the evening to try to articulate what I mean properly. Just…it’s odd. I would have liked some proper context to these questions, and it wasn’t there. So I added a note for C stating that, and advising that in the absence of such information, I was answering the questions at face value – ie. assuming that “percentage of the time” meant all the time. In all probability, having done so may well end up minimising my levels of dissociation as far as these scales go, but all I could do was be honest within the framework I was given.

Two things concerned me about the longer test (the MID) in particular. Firstly, a cursory search online suggested that the MID is used to diagnose Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). Even though I’m all but certain this diagnosis is not at all applicable to me, I worked myself into a panic and convinced myself that C thought I had it. Not that there would be anything wrong with having it, obviously, but given how much I don’t think it applies, it would create an incongruence between C and I if that were his opinion. Fortunately, I now see that the scale is used more widely than just in relation to DID; it’s also applied to measure borderline and PTSD dissociation, which of course is me right off to a tee. So hopefully C is on my wavelength after all.

The second thing to annoy me was that there are several questions that ask about how much you exaggerate your symptoms – either physical or psychological – in order to get attention (or variants thereon). I know C didn’t write the MID, but I nevertheless took this as a personal insult. Does he really think I am faking all of this?! On a more logistical note, even if I were, am I really going to own up to that to him, the very person in front of whom I would be faking (at least psychic) symptoms?! Now, in fairness, I’ve been known to exaggerate some physical issues, but never ‘for attention’ – at least, not in the traditional sense. I’ve done it only when I know a completely honest description of the problem would not garner the treatment required, as is quite typical throughout the NHS (at least in my experience). To the best of my recollection, I’ve never done it in relation to my psychological health – if anything, the polar opposite is more likely to be the case.

C had thought we wouldn’t get to discuss the questionnaires this week as he reckoned they’d have arrived tomorrow (Tuesday) and he wouldn’t be back in that office until Thursday (at which point I am the first person, other than his secretary I assume, that he sees), but I ended up posting them in time that they may well have gotten there today, thus affording him the opportunity to study them in advance of this week’s session should he wish to do so. We shall see if indeed that comes to pass.

Anyway. I’ve diverged from a discussion about the session to a discussion of dissociative scales, so let’s move back to where we were meant to be.

Eventually, for reasons I can’t particularly fathom because it wasn’t relevant to anything we’ve been discussing in-session recently, I mentioned briefly to C that I had been out the evening before with A, as it had been the anniversary of my meeting him.

C asked me how things were with A, which was a curious question I thought; I don’t believe I’ve ever led him to believe that things were anything other than good between us. Of course, as I was typing that last sentence I remembered that of course I’ve told C about what a cunt I’ve been to A at times (for example, here) so I suppose it wasn’t such an odd question after all. Anyway, I said that things were good and that “A takes care of me.”

Unfortunately, I literally said that “A takes care of me.” Not his real name, but A. I corrected myself and continued, thinking of it as nothing more than simple absent-mindedness, but C interrupted me and asked what I had meant by ‘A’.

“Oh, that’s what I call him on my blog,” I said dismissively. “I suppose it shows what a big part of my life it is.”

I was ready to move on and discuss something that might actually have been vaguely useful, but C started harping on my apparent allegation that “the blog had taken over my life.” He looked suspicious, which disturbed me considerably. My paranoid mind is now convinced – especially in light of the exaggeration questions in the MID – that he thinks I make stuff up, or that I exaggerate and embellish to a significant degree, to make things sound interesting here. I don’t think that’s true. Is it? I know I’m guilty of paraphrasing and perhaps not always describing things exactly as they happened, but isn’t that the nature of any subjective human experience? Am I fucking things up?

And here we hit the brick wall of nothingness. I don’t remember the next half hour to 40 minutes at all. I could understand it if I just forgot little bits and pieces or nuances, but I literally remember nothing. My supposition is that this is because – hurrah, you’ve guessed it – I dissociated it. I’m almost certain that I didn’t reveal any specifics to him as regards our ongoing subject matter of child sexual abuse, because I remember having a discussion dodging that later. But I don’t know what I did say. I intend to ask him on Thursday, because I can’t tolerate this blankness, longed-for-lobotomy or not.

The next thing I recall was telling him that I hadn’t really discussed the flashbacks I’d been experiencing with him the previous week, owing simply to the fact that we hadn’t had time (as the session was almost entirely spent discussing the hallucinations). There was a bit of (largely un-recalled) probing from him, and a lot of humming-and-haing from me, though I think I admitted that the flashbacks occur as if they were my ‘present’ and not my past. I’m sure he asked me something on that point, but – wahey – I don’t remember what it was. Well done, P.

Eventually, I admitted to the somatic symptoms that accompany my flashbacks and, indeed, that often stay put quite independently of them – the almost constant physical pain that has plagued me as part of this whole nightmare for the past few weeks. I think he may have asked me similar questions to those he posed in this session – namely, were the somatic symptoms in my genital region – but I don’t remember fully.

What I do recall is that eventually I told him my back hurt like blazes all the time, and that it’s especially pronounced during a particular recurring flashback. He asked in what way it hurt, and I responded by telling him that I had been forced to sort of stand against a wall and that that was what had caused me pain in that area.

Cue a lot of investigation from him as to exactly how I was standing and a lot of attempted avoidance from me. In short, this flashback is one wherein I was pinned to the (outside of) the garage wall, my knees bent forward considerably so that I was at the ‘right’ height and angle to suck Paedo’s cock. The pain emanates from the pebble-dashing of the wall pressing into my back, as well as being pushed against the wall with some force during each hideous thrust.

I managed to get out of telling C what went on, but he couldn’t understand what way I was standing during the incident in question, leading to much confusion. I was about to act it out for him, but found that I couldn’t bring myself to do so, and told him as much.

He said, “could you draw it for me?”, pushing a pen and a bit of the bland Trust-headed note-paper towards me.

I was surprised at the request, and ever so slightly horrified, but made some gesture of reluctant acquiesence, and drew a stick-figure me contorted against a wall in the aforementioned grotesque fashion. To my immense revulsion, C then went to the wall and physically depicted the stance I’d drawn myself in. “Like this?” he asked.

I nodded, and looked away, suddenly ‘back there’ for a minute or two.

Fortunately – or otherwise, depending on your perspective – this was at the tail end of the session and he couldn’t probe me deeper any further. He said that his supposition was that this particular incident was a forced incident of oral sex (no shit).

“But,” he added thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “I don’t think calling it ‘oral sex’ is an accurate term. It’s not sex; the word ‘sex’ implies consent, not to mention the ability to consent.”

I stared at him blankly, determined to give nothing away.

And that’s suddenly reminded me of one thing that happened in the ‘lost’ half hour: I remember repeating over and over again that “shagging one’s uncle at the age of five is disgusting,” and C reminding me that a five year old can’t consent, and my counter-protesting that I knew that, but that didn’t change my view on how disgusting I was/am and that no amount of evidence or rationalisation ever would.

Indeed, I now remember that I repeated the word ‘disgusting’ in relation to myself and what happened over and over and over and over again, then went into a self-vituperation of epic proportions for failing to employ synonyms of ‘disgusting’ in my speech, thus in turn failing to utilise the English language in a more creative fashion. Very rational and helpful, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Anyhow, discussion of the forced-fellatio-flashback completed (that even sounds like a dubious sexual practice), I was feeling physically ill and as if I were about to explode with a doom-filled internal energy. I joked to C that I was going to throw up all over him, and he joked back that he would dodge the vomit and catch it in the bin. For some reason the gentle banter calmed me slightly – but I was still in full-on crazy-mode.

As a consequence, I held out my hand in front of me, in order that I could measure how much it was shaking. This harks back to an incident when I was 15. The day after I’d found out about my ex’s colossal betrayal – an incident about which I must write one of these days – I was sitting in school, literally shaking from head to toe. At one point I noticed my extended right hand shaking up and down, like the Golden Gate Bridge shaking in an earthquake. Ever since, I have used that as a benchmark to determine my levels of overt anxiety.

It was shaking a fair bit on Thursday, but not unmanageably so. “That’s OK,” I muttered thankfully, mainly to myself.

I noticed C’s raised eyebrow, and explained what I was doing. I was delighted when he said that he’d seen me doing it before. I know he’d seen me doing it before, but it was the fact that he remembered such a small, meaningless thing about me that was so pathetically important.

I was further delighted when he described my facing up to the fellatio flashback with him as ‘brave’. He’d also said I was ‘brave’ in the last session, and I have to say, the fact that he thinks this makes my heart and mind sing like something out of The Sound of fucking Music.

Clearly, though, C does not know that his endorsement (if that’s the right word) has such a positive effect on me. He said, “you probably don’t like me calling you ‘brave’, do you?”

I nonchalantly responded that I “didn’t mind” the use of the adjective in reference to me. Oh, what a belier of truth I am!

I went on and told him that although I appreciated him saying that, that it really didn’t “fit” with what I felt about myself.

“I’m not brave in my mind,” I murmured quietly.

“Well,” he responded, rather definitely and slightly authoritatively. “I think you are brave.”

And for the second week running, I got an “all the best” as I left, which always makes my week. I’m still desperate for him to actually like me, which I know rationally is probably a silly pipedream. But his present extension of an arm of kindness comforts and reassures me, and I’ll continue to bask in its loveliness for some time to come.

C opened the session by noting that it had been a fortnight since I’d last seen him, a meeting during which I had apparently “taken a very brave step” in admitting that I was systematically raped as a child. Brave. He called me brave. He complimented me, or at least I think he did…and my cynical little heart leapt with joy. Pa-the-tic. I hope I managed to hide my internal manic rapture; I know he knows about my attachment to him, but this is ridiculous! (Actually, I think I must have hid it quite well because the next week, when he used the same word, he supposed that I would object to him describing me as such. But more of that in a post or two).

He asked how admitting to the reality of things in session had been for me, and I told him that I was kind of surprised by how calm and measured I had felt as I’d detailed the extent of the molestation. Encouraged by that, he then asked how things had been since that discussion.

I threw my head back and laughed out loud, in what was, on reflection, a hideously maniacal fashion. Sensing his surprised bemusement, I stopped myself and said, quite definitely yet sardonically, “things have been just fine!”

He raised his eyebrow, as well he might have done. He said, “your reaction to the question and your body language would strongly refute that.”

“Well,” I sighed eventually, “let’s put it this way: it’s a good thing I’m seeing the psychiatrist next week”. Then I actually bit the bullet and volunteered the information to him about the ongoing persecution from ‘They’ and fake-Paedo. As I say, there’s not a great deal of point in getting into the minutiae of that conversation, but one point of note was that he decided he would ‘map’ my mind on his whiteboard. He did something similar once before in relation to my behaviour when I feel threatened and on the perennial abandonment anxieties, and the intellect inside me had found it quite fascinating.

C divided the map into two sections. There’s ‘additional’ “presences” in my mind (initially he asked if I wanted to call them ‘presences’ or ‘parts’. I went with the former because ‘parts’ infers that they’re somehow part of me, and whilst I accept that possibility intellectually, that is not how it feels at all), plus there’s the very obvious internal sides of myself, several of whom keep up a running commentary in my head most of the time.

Presences

‘They’ – multifaceted, malevolent, potentially harmful.
Tom – benign and soothing – but does he still exist?
Fake-Paedo – though his ‘existence’ is arguable as he appears outside my mind (as do ‘They’ at times).

Sides of Me

The Bitch – (“I’m only using that term because you insist on it”, apparently). Finds the other sides weak and pathetic. Contemptuous of them.
The Child – scared, hurt, vulnerable – in need of someone to take care of her.
The Intellect – ‘everything can be rationalised’ (though as I said, to C’s amusement, I am a walking quintessence of the ironic falsehood of that statement)
Plus the healthy adult and some others. It harks back to our various discussions on schemas, which he again acknowledged (and on which C has published research specifically on BPD!).

The long and the short of this analysis was that C thinks the psychoses (or, as he perhaps more aptly seems to believe them to be, the dissociative presences) are caused by a splintering of my mind, thanks to having to deal with such graphic and enormous matters in therapy after having repressed them for so many years.

He said, “you are of course extremely intelligent, so I think you know that yourself, don’t you?”

Did he just call me ‘extremely intelligent’? Why, I rather believe he did. EPIC WIN, Pan, epic fucking win! Another compliment!!! Once more my perfidious heart nigh on exploded with delighted glee.

I admitted that rationally it was quite obvious to me that this bout of psychotic symptoms was caused by recent revelations in therapy, especially given the timing of the episodes. “However,” I went on, “that doesn’t keep them from feeling utterly vividly and absolutely real.”

Apparently he had not intended to suggest otherwise, but merely wanted to explore the motivations for their manifestations. The fact that their whinging (“slut, whore, bitch” etc) is in keeping with the whinging of The Bitch seems to provide further evidence for this position – it’s just that ‘They’ have become a more extreme form of a similar thing. In the absence of a compassionate side of myself, Tom had (temporarily, alas) fulfilled that function. ‘They’ are just sort of doing the opposite.

I said to C, “you know that ‘They’ won’t like this analysis.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” he said automatically. “They’ll probably think it’s a load of bollocks.”

For some reason this made me laugh a lot, probably because it was so completely spot-on. I told C that they didn’t like him, and he didn’t seem surprised. He didn’t say it the way A so explicitly does, but something in his body language intimated to me that he doesn’t like ‘They’ either.

He never remembers their name. He keeps calling them ‘Them’ or something, then he ends up berating himself for not getting it right. “It’s not your fault,” I exclaimed defensively at one point, “it’s their’s! They’re the ones that are gramatically challenged, not you!”

I mean, what kind of sad tossers go around calling their collective selves ‘They’? Do they think they sound hard or something? Come on, ‘They’ – it’s not like it’s the fucking Crips or Bloods, now is it? Why can’t you at least assign names to each other?

Anyway, I digress. I don’t know how we got back on to the sex abuse topic specifically, but at one point C said something about getting me to articulate some of the actual minituae of the incidents. I (literally) recoiled in horror at the suggestion.

However, I knew that I, for once, had the upper hand; we had talked so much about the psychoses that I knew there could be very little time left for anything else, let alone something so difficult to address. So I said, “you don’t seriously expect me to do that today, do you?”

I watched as his eyes shifted from me, to the strategically-placed clock behind my head. He looked at it for a few seconds before conceding that no, he didn’t expect me to do it today.

And that was that really. I got a “take care, all the best,” on the way out, which always brightens my Thursdays, pathetic as they and I are.

The ‘S’ and ‘H’ Words

So onward to the psychiatrist, on Wednesday 21 April (also the anniversary of the day I met A!). In a stylistic homage to her predecessor, NewVCB kept me waiting for nearly 20 minutes after my allocated time. I was interested to note that, before summoning me, she came into the waiting room and handed some old git an envelope (which I assume was a prescription, as she did the same for me before I left). I didn’t care in any way that this occurrence took place.

Sounds innocuous, right? Of course it does. Why even mention it, Pan, you stupid, pedantic cow? Well, the thing is, if C had come into the waiting room and interacted with one of the assorted mentalists in front of my face, I would have had a complete shit attack, and probably throttled him (and the relevant mentalist too for that matter). I give you Attachment in Action, my friends. C is not allowed to have anything to do with anyone but me, least of all some other bloody mental. I am the focus of his world. He has no other patients. He has no other life. It is only me. C and me. Me and C. He exists only in those 50 minutes each Thursday, because he exists only for me. That is the way it is.

Oh, what a LIFE FAIL as I have.

Anyhow, again I digress. NewVCB showed me to her office and asked how things had been, and I just sort of collapsed in a wobbly mess in front of her. No tears or anything, but lots of agitated, highly disturbed rambling. Somehow, amidst the virtual delirium of my babbling, I managed to convey what had been happening to me.

The first thing of note was that NewVCB used the ‘s’ word in front of me. She had done once before, but on that occasion had absolutely refuted its relevance to me. On Wednesday, however, she said, “in the past – the fairly recent past at that – you’d have been diagnosed with a schizophrenic illness.”

I had, at one point, decided that I had schizoaffective disorder (given my asinine tendencies towards self-diagnosis), but nevertheless – hearing this kind of comment from a consultant psychiatrist unsettled me greatly. ‘Schizophrenia’ is a big word to have thrown at you, even though I can see why I would once have been felt by the discipline of psychiatry to have it. I don’t know why it sounds so daunting; after all, I am effectively medicated for it, or at least a sub-threshold version thereof. Still, her use of the word struck terror in my heart (which by this point most assuredly wasn’t leaping with joy or threatening to explode with delight or whatever other sickly metaphor I used above regarding C’s quasi-compliments).

Anyhow, she continued: “but we now know, thanks to much research in the area, that there’s almost two types of psychosis. There’s your traditional schizophrenic, firmly-believed and long-term psychoses, and then there’s this other branch that is often seen in severely traumatised people like yourself.”

Point of Interest II. Severely traumatised like [me]? Severely traumatised? Rid-ic-ulous! Cue silly internal ruminative roundabout of denial-like idiocy: What the hell is she talking about? I’m not traumatised – I’m a little whore that got justly punished for the disgusting thing of fetid-ness that she was and is. Trauma. Scoff!!! lolz like innit (all this notwithstanding the fact that I diagnosed myself with ((and gained confirmation from NewVCB that I have)) complex post-traumatic stress disorder. Go figure. I’m a walking contradiction).

Of course, the Me that was in control of my voicebox at the time didn’t make use of it, and I therefore found myself simply nodding every so often to acknowledge the fact that NewVCB was speaking. She said at one point that her “instinct [was] to throw medication at [me],” but that she knew logically that this was stuff that, in the main, needed to be worked through psychologically.

Not surprisingly this led on to a discussion about the imminent-ish end of therapy. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but the inference was that useful work can be done in the remaining – what? Eight or nine? – weeks. She said, “you have to stop viewing it as some sort of countdown.”

I laughed in her face. I laughed in her face with barely concealed bitterness, contempt and irritation. “Don’t you think,” I began, through gritted teeth, “that if it was possible to not view it as a countdown that I would be doing so?”

Some non-committal response.

“I have tried, NewVCB,” I told her, very definitely. “I have tried, and I cannot not view it as a countdown. I can still work well with C despite that, but that reality is not going away.”

To be fair, and to my surprise, she backed down and appeared to accept this. Then she started rattling on about breaks from therapy which are only temporary.

Apparently what “quite often” happens is that patients leave therapy, for a matter of months, maybe even in excess of a year. During that time they put their newfound self-understanding and training for ‘real’ relationships and situations into practice. Then, some time later, they’re referred back to therapy to build on the work they had previously done, both in and out of session. How did that sound to me?

“In principle I have no strong objections, though it does seem curious to cut the process short when one is in the middle of something so important as this, especially given how rushed and forced into things I feel,” I told her. “Whatever the case, though, what I could not stomach is being referred back to therapy, only to be forced into some wanky C- or DBT. I promise you, that would be a very bad idea. Any therapy with ‘BT’ in the title will not work for me, and will only serve to make me very angry indeed.”

To my amazement, rather than defend the health service’s little alleged panaceatic wankeries of non-loveliness, she nodded in agreement with me. Score.

I went on. “Besides, it’s not just about the type of therapy; it’s an issue of personalities. I saw Christ knows how many people before I met C, and he’s the first one that has been of any real help to me. I know that literature on this matter agrees that the therapeutic relationship is absolutely fundamental to healing, insofar as healing is possible.”

Again she nodded. “There are no guarantees; things change in the health service just like they do in any place of employment. C could obviously leave his job here for another one. But, assuming there are no such changes, we try to put people back with the folks that have previously treated them.”

Point of Interest Mark III. That was very interesting. C has made no reference to anything of this nature. Additionally, it seems slightly at odds with a comment NewVCB made when I first met her – she said something along the lines of her being sure that C would extend things now if he felt it was necessary. C had, rather obviously, made no reference to that course of action either.

Part of me has wondered since C imposed this ending if he has been doing it to force me into talking. If he would change his mind later in the contract because he was getting somewhere – which he now is, of course. I had always thought that what he wanted me to think was that the cessation of the process was about (a lack of) resources. But if what NewVCB says is true, how can that be? Maybe he wants to end things because of my attachment to him, an issue of which he is fully aware. But surely the antidote to that is to fucking work through it with him, rather than find myself thrown out in the deep end that is the cuntified, horrible, real bloody world?

Anyway. Anyway. Siiiiigh.

Anyway. Eventually discussion with NewVCB centred around medication; she did exactly what I’d expected her to do and told me she would increase my dose of Quetiapine from 300mg to 400mg. She warned, however, that she intended this to be temporary.

Her rationale for this dose and its probable temporary nature is primarily that she wants me to get through this particularly difficult period in therapy, of course – since the drug had had such a good effect in its 300mg dose, it would be hoped that once this current spell is dealt with psychologically, that that dose would once again be effective. Secondly, though, she wants to leave herself “room to play with,” in case the dose needs to be increased further, which she suspects it eventually might. She had already warned me that she’d be reluctant to take me over about 700mg, so she felt that she needed to leave a reasonable gap between that maximum dose and the present one.

And here she scared me.

She said, “I don’t want to over-medicate you [fine], but we do need to make sure you don’t go further downhill and that you can continue to do this work with C [still fine]. If I didn’t increase the medication, then that could slide [OK]. At the end of the day…[dramatic pause]…[looks me straight in the eye, her left eyebrow slightly cocked]…our priority is to keep you safe [clears throat guiltily, shifts gaze].”

Her euphemism, especially when accompanied by such powerful body language, is clearly psychiatristspeak for HOSPITAL. Yet another point of interest, though in this case one I would rather not have had.

No fucking way, no way no way no way. I will kill myself first. I. WILL.. KILL. MY. SELF. Do you fucking hear me, you bitch?

Of course, rather than make any such protest – which may well have been interpreted as a borderline strop anyway – In-Control Me just looked at her meekly, and even fucking nodded.

I was, however, determined to steer her away from continued thoughts around this subject, so I took the opportunity to beg her for sleeping tablets. She agreed, to my considerable satisfaction (and in hilarious defiance of Twathead GP. Interestingly, Twathead had accused me of insubordination vis a vis the consultant’s advice on Venlafaxine, but now the shoe’s on the other foot, Twathead; he refused to give me Zopiclone, and hey presto – look what the consultant is now doing! Hahaha! Mwhahahahaha!!!).

I actually got really lucky with the Zopiclone prescription, owing to an administrative mistake at the GPs’ ‘surgery’. But that, along with the entire comedy of errors that was obtaining my prescriptions, is a story to be told on another day.

In conclusion, I suppose there’s some encouragement to take from this appointment, especially re: the cessation of therapy issue. I think, whether C will admit it or not, that NewVCB probably has some influence on how he proceeds – and if the courses of action that she has mooted are indeed possible, well, that’s better than the alternative of complete abandonment. The question remains though – does C know about any of this?

She was going to talk to him after my most recent appointment with him (blog upcoming) so we’ll see what, if anything, comes of that. In the meantime, I’m a vertiable walking pharmacy and glad of it, and think I am ready to continue the anti-Paedo / anti-’They’ fight with C. All of the non-existent bastards are still hovering about for now, but Quetiapine has served me well in the past, and I have faith that it can do it once more.

If the police are ever involved in my psychiatric life, then all hell will break loose. I will be fucked. A – and possibly a range of others too – may well be forced to give out information about this blog and the history of my mentalness. If that happens, not only will the peelers (Northern Ireland colloquialism for the cops) probably have to instigate a historical enquiry vis a vis Padeo, but they will have no choice but to contact social services about him, given his access to Marcus, Marcus’s baby brother and a couple of teenage grandchildren that hover about in his life from time to time.

It’s bad enough to have gone through sexual abuse as a child and to have to relive it all so vividly and painfully now. But now I have to be responsible for not losing my mind, when my mind dangles so precariously on a precipice somewhere between semi-sanity and complete insanity. That is not fair. Haven’t I gone through enough? How am I meant to control that which almost by definition is uncontrollable? And yet, the ramifications of not doing so are way too big – life-ruining and terrifying. I am holding it together now, but I know it is by a mere fickle thread.

And, mais oui, I’m effectively being re-traumitised with all this abuse bollocks by psychotherapy, during the middle of which C will just up sticks. How unfair can you get? I know this stuff needs to be psychologically addressed, but it can’t just be done in a few short weeks; it won’t just be OK or even vaguely manageable just like that. Of course, that assumes that I can even talk about it at some point between now and June, and that’s a very big ‘if’. I know from others – bourach and Splintered Ones, most notably – that if specific discussion of these matters comes at all, then it simply cannot be forced. So how am I meant to ever do this with C, given the short timeframe that remains of our relationship? I resent the notion of going private, even though I recognise it as all but inevitable, because I have done (or at the very least have tried to do) my duty to the stupid, hateful Trust by working since I was 16, and happily paying my national insurance to its governing Department during that time. Fuck them. It would serve them right if I never worked again simply so as I could avoid paying them a penny more.

I’m not even going to bother giving discussion of my last session with C its own post as I normally do. It was a complete waste of time; if he wants to play psychological academics, then he should have gone into full-time research, not clinical practice. Not that I mind the psychological academics per se – but I do hate an inordinate amount of time being devoted thereto when there are very real and serious matters that must be addressed now. Otherwise they never will be.

Apparently, I cling to “a tyranny of ‘shoulds’”, particularly regarding the sex abuse, meaning that I am convinced I should discuss the specifics of said rapes etc, I should resolve it in my own mind, blah blah blah blah de fucking blah blah. He thinks I hinder myself by demanding so much of myself in this way, which is probably true – but the alternative is surely even worse. As I told him, if I do not openly share this information with him, then it will remain unprocessed and unresolved. It will only continue to haunt me should that be the case.

I told him that I pretty desperately wanted to talk to him, and he said that that was encouraging – but is it? 14 weeks (or 10, if you account for the four sessions to deal with the cessation of the process) is not enough time to resolve several years of systematic child sexual abuse of almost every conceivable description, not to mention all the other issues – the bullying, the ex, and the continued unresolved shite about my father – and even mother for that matter. How can I be expected to continue to trust him in such circumstances? I mean – I do trust him, but that’s because I am deliberately trying to fool myself into not realising the relative imminence of our last sessions.

C said, to my considerable annoyance, that some people enter therapy expecting to be cured and that that’s not necessarily what it’s about (or words to that effect). I found this patronising in the extreme, especially because I have consistently told him that I don’t want or even believe in cures. What I want, and I do not think this unreasonable, is to fully explore my considerable wealth of issues with someone I trust implicitly and that is trained to explore them with me. This is in the hope that I can adequately process and in part resolve said issues, thus leading to an ability to fucking manage being mental in an everyday, vaguely normal-ish life. Oh, and this can not be achieved using the abject fuckery of either DBT or CBT, which DON’T FUCKING WORK (for me) and are not the panaceatic solutions that the NHbloodyS likes to pretend they are. So if Mr Director-Person tries fobbing me off with that old dog-dirt-coloured chestnut, he’d better be ready for the ongoing fight to step up yet another notch.

C also accused me of playing a game of mental “tug of war” with him, all because I responded to him in some really rather subtlely pass-remarkable fashion. It was a throwaway comment, but it’s not allowed to be throwaway in a psychotherapy session, is it? Everything you say, do, even bloody think (so it sometimes seems) is subject to deep analysis by the alleged science of psychology. Actually, I’m being unfair in being so bitter about that – the dark arts of psychology have helped me a little through C to date, and I do think he is skilled in them.

However, it is a character trait of mine to be unnecessarily – and quite possibly inappropriately – flippant at times. Maybe that means something in the grand scheme of things – I don’t know. But I didn’t think it fair for one particular instance of it to be singled out, especially given that I really didn’t feel I was playing any sort of games with or fighting against C that day.

And that’s really all that happened. A pointless session, just like the one prior to it had been, except on this occasion it was mainly his fault, not mine.

What else? I’m feeling alright – not great, but I’m managing. Thank you, Seroquel, my favourite drug in the entire universe (even though I simultaneously hate it too, because rather like Venlafaxine it fucks with your head if you miss or come off it). The recollections of the abuse prey on my mind, and the sense of yet another imminent abanodonment haunts my consciousness when I allow myself to think of C. IBS troubles me, as do headaches. I’m getting through Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman quite well considering my poor concentration span, and find myself nodding with her analyses at most junctures. Despite taking the drugs at the fairly tame time of 9pm, I’m rarely asleep before 2am, and rarely awake before midday as a consequence.

But for the meantime at least, I’m surviving, if only capriciously. It’s the calm before another storm, I’m sure, but I’ll take the little I get.

Designed using Wordle.

Not the best evening I’ve had.  Cannot stop ruminating, as the above probably attests.

Alas.

My ineptitude left me in a pretty awful frame of mind post-therapy.  One minute, I’d be quite happily getting along with whatever; the next, I’d just burst into tears.  I cried so much at one point on Thursday night that when I lifted my head, everything around me was covered in blood – the force of my tears had induced a major nose bleed (the worst I’ve had in years).  I also ended up driving home (and beyond) that evening in an unforgivably reckless fashion, in what I suppose was an attempt to weed out my frustrations.  I was in tears throughout most of the drive and at one point realised I was doing over 100mph.  Not good at all, for my car and for other road users.  It didn’t matter about my life, of course.

Anyway.  Enough of the “woe is me”.

Because Mr Director-Person hadn’t had the courtesy to copy C in on the letter he’d sent me, I took C a copy of it.  I told him that although it hadn’t been my intention in session the previous week, that I was now going to reply.

The discussion around this stupidly went on for maybe 15 or 20 minutes.  I admitted that my key motivation was to piss off Mr Director-Person and friends, and C kept asking me why I wanted to act in a manner as “destructive” as that.  There was the usual rant from me that if the bloody NHS had acted properly rather than throwing Fluoxetine in my face when I was 14, then maybe I wouldn’t have even needed to meet C (as my mentalness might have been adequately dealt with when I was a teenager, thus negating at least some of the need for therapy now).  There was a load of Trust-defensive rhetoric from him, plus a pile of questions designed to investigate my “true” motivation in replying.  He contended that I must want something other than to annoy Mr D-P.  He also seemed incredulous at my reaction to Mr D-P’s letter; what was it that I actually wanted from him?!

What I actually wanted was Mr D-P to take my case seriously and agree that longer-term psychotherapy was required, but what I told C was what I had wanted was something that actually fucking meant something, which is also true.  Mr D-P’s letter did not say anything in its 700 odd words.  It just threw a few dates at me and expected that to satisfy me.  Preposterous.

There was no animosity between C and I during this discussion, but I was pretty assertive and didn’t hold back.  I called Mr D-P “stupid” and accused him of “patronising” me.  I told C that “everyone but [him]” agreed with my decision to respond.  He was actually slightly amused by the fact that he was so outnumbered.

He eventually made the wise decision to cut that topic short, presumably with a view to continuing our discussion of the sexual abuse.  However, I butted in and started going on about my appointment with the psychiatrist the previous day.  I babbled on for a bit about the medication issues then told him that NewVCB agreed with my assertion that I am afflicted with C-PTSD.

C was a bit annoying over this.  He pointed out that C-PTSD is not included in the DSM or the ICD nor is it going to be in at least the DSM’s next incarnation (facts that I knew), and that all the research he’d read on borderline suggested that people with that diagnosis had been abused as children.  He must have been reading different research from me, because whilst child abuse is common in those with BPD, it is not universal.  Anyway, the implication was that I had no need to seek a diagnosis of C-PTSD as BPD was perfectly adequate.

I protested saying yes, some people diagnosed with BPD were badly abused as kids, but that it was still the disorder that everyone loved to hate (he agreed that it “doesn’t have a very good rep”), and I went on to point out that at least having recognition of some form of PTSD was important to me as it shifted the focus to trauma, rather than personality.

“You mentioned trauma,” he said after a few minutes.

“Oh, here we go,” I whispered, rolling my eyes slightly.  A few minutes later I was aware of the physical stance that I’d taken; arms folded across my chest, head bowed, shoulders tense.  He commented on it, saying that it was in marked contrast to the assertive me of a few minutes previously.

We discussed the conversation we’d had the week before, and I told him – still omitting specific details – more about the flashbacks.  I quietly admitted that I’d been highly disturbed by the visions of what happened beside the old kennel particularly, as it had gone by the time I was five or six.  My conscious perceptions had always been that this stuff happened only much later in my childhood.

I’m not sure exactly how things progressed, but whatever the case he eventually asked if I would find it less difficult to start describing some of the more ‘minor’ incidents.  I reckoned it would, so I agreed.

Wrong!  I kept thinking in detail about numerous times that Paedo had stroked my thighs in what I think he though was an alluring fashion (!), but I couldn’t even articulate that to C.  Fucking pathetic me.  Stupid bitch.  Every time I went to speak of it, something held the information in my throat.

“It’s almost like it’s somatic,” I told him eventually.  “I can feel a blockage in my throat that’s preventing me from telling you about it.  I feel like every nerve in my body is on end.”

“You can get up and walk about if you like,” he offered, which struck me as unusual as any time I’ve so much as stood up in the past, he has questioned me on my motivations for doing so.  At any rate, I shrugged and told him I’d be fine.

More silence ensued, and eventually C asked me what was going through my head.  Not that I could manage to tell him about the thigh-stroking bullshit, of course, but my mind was also engaging in its usual internal dichotomy of Me-That-is-Irritated-by-Me versus Pathetic-Child-Me.

“One side is saying, ‘it’s only words you stupid bitch, just tell him,’” I said.  “The other is whining, [cue childish voice] ‘noooo, I can’t!’”

“What if…” he began, standing up.  My eyes followed him in a kind of confused curiosity.

He pulled the chair from his desk away and put it in the middle of the room, then removed his bag from the spare chair next to me and pulled it towards the other.  There were now four chairs, including his and mine, in a nice little circle together.

He sat back down on his chair, and I raised an eyebrow at him.  The empty chair technique?  Gestalt therapy?!  When did this become part of our work together?

He asked me to imagine that Child Me was on the chair closest to me, and that the more Punitive Me was in the remaining empty chair.

“What would you say to them?” he asked.

I ignored the two empty chairs and said, to him, “I’d tell them both to wise the fuck up.”

C threw back his head and laughed.  It was the first time I noticed what nice teeth he has.

“Don’t worry,” I continued.  “The inherent irony in that statement is not lost on me.  I’m being punitive towards both of them, when I’m supposed to stop one being so punitive.”

“Can you think of another way to talk to them?” he enquired.  “And can you talk to them – not me?”

I faced the two chairs and eventually made some trite statement that the bully should see how difficult things are for the child, but that the child should see that maybe the bully had a point, even if she had an undesirable way of expressing it.

The two faceless chairs freaked me out.  That sounds ridiculous; they are chairs.  But somehow C had succeeded in getting me to project aspects of my personality onto them.  It was incredibly disconcerting, and I told him so.

“Why?” he pressed.

“They’re watching me.”

“And what are they saying or thinking?”

“They hate me.”  And I really felt that they did; the malevolence emanating from these two inanimate objects was, to me, hideously and suffocatingly palpable.

By this point, it was near the end of the session, and in fact C later pointed out that we’d overran (this delighted me as it meant he didn’t have another patient coming in straight after me.  I can thus maintain my wretched illusion of him being exclusive to me).

He said that he knew I found the empty chairs unsettling, but he asked how I felt about it as a useful aid to the therapy.

I didn’t like it, obviously.  However, I thought – as I’m sure so did he – that the exercise had been telling, even if only subtly so.  I therefore told him that I thought it had some merit.

He nodded, so perhaps that is something to look into again in the next few weeks.  He then turned the subject back to housekeeping-esque issues, telling me that whilst he knew it was important to me, he wondered if we could maybe focus less on the crap with the Trust in the next session.

“Sorry,” I replied mournfully.

As stated, he immediately leapt to my defence, reminding me – correctly, in fairness – that he’d fully engaged in that conversation too.

Whatever the case, he wants to use the next session (tomorrow) to go on about this sex abuse stuff.  Fuck.  I am horrified in two ways – one, it is my instinct to avoid this and two, tomorrow is week 45.  To negate the effects of one, I have printed out extracts from my post about the session a fortnight ago, in which I detailed the flashbacks of severe elements of the abuse.  I’d told him in this session that I’d considered bringing him such written information, but advised that I had decided against it as I thought he’d want me to verbalise the stuff.  He does, apparently, but thought working around written stuff would at least be a start.  Good.

As for point two, there is no way to combat it, excepting miracles from Mr D-P or someone.  I only have 59 weeks in total, and look how much time I wasted this session.  I was so raging with myself for doing that, but that rage pales into insignificance against the the dread I feel regarding the end of the relationship – a dread that threatens to completely and utterly overwhelm me.  I was telling one of my online friends during the week that thinking about the end of things with C is akin to contemplating the death of a loved one.  C will effectively be dead to me after week 59.  I will, in all probability, never see him again after it.

It’s too much.  I cannot cope with it.