Well…I don’t really hate this blog. As I’ve said several times, it is in fact my pride and joy – or, at least, what has gone before has made up what I call my pride and joy. I don’t feel very proud or very joyful at the minute, though it’s not the blog’s fault, obviously; it’s mine. I keep saying to myself, “you’ve got to write about this,” or “you should say a few words about that,” and then I look at the screen of the laptop, poise my fingers across the keyboard’s home keys – and everything goes blank.
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.