therapy 5.0

You might recall that I didn’t seem to connect very well with my previous therapist, who was intent on making me do mindfulness techniques despite my lack of enthusiasm. He then suddenly left the practice, and I declined his invitation to follow him to his new office. I thought I could work on my anxiety on my own. Yeah, right.

This week, I started seeing my fifth therapist, who works at my psychiatrist’s office. The first appointment is always difficult, especially for someone like me who feels awkward talking about myself, to a stranger, trying to summarize my dumpster-fire life in an hour. I started out very nervous, like it was a test I had not prepared for; she actually offered me some fidget toys if they would help. I passed on the toys, but I calmed down a little while we talked.

She seems like a good listener; even though she was typing notes as fast as I was talking, she asked the right questions when necessary. She appears to be quite young, but I don’t have any problem with that. Her personality would be good with children, but she didn’t treat me like a child. Overall I got a good feeling from the visit.

After the short life history (which I struggled to keep short), she asked what the most important things were to discuss. I told her that I have already written a “field guide” to my many mental health problems, but maybe we could start with my social anxiety and general anxiety. She was interested in reading my lists, so I will print that out for next time.

I’m guessing that starting with a new therapist is as difficult for everyone else as it is for me. I am forced to immediately allow her within my “trusted circle” rather than getting to know her slowly, which is quite unnerving. This is a place where only a few people are allowed, and yet here is a stranger I am telling things usually only reserved for my blog friends. At the same time, I have to remember she is a professional, paid to listen and help me solve problems, and we’re not going out for coffee afterward.

pants on fire

I lie to my family, I lie to my friends
I lie to my co-workers, I lie without end

I lie to my doctor, and say I’ve been good
I tell him I exercise and eat better food

I lie to my wife if I say where I’ve been
she doesn’t need to know who, where, or when

I lie to my mom when I tell her I’ll call
sometime soon, maybe next fall

I lied to the bank; the check’s not in the mail
I lied to my shrink; another tall tale.
I lied to the waitress; my food wasn’t good
I lied to my boss; I’d punch him if I could

so many stories, so many lies
they’ll follow me ‘til I’m dead
eventually those lies will catch up to me
like ol’ Fat Albert said

I lie, I fib, I equivocate the same
I prevaricate, I misrepresent
with no sense of impunity or shame
maybe I could be the president

[I wrote this in about an hour, but then again, maybe I’m lying. 2019.]

don’t talk about it

When I was a kid, life at home was pretty messed up, and I was aware of it from about age 8 or 9. I didn’t want anyone to know what my home life was like, and I never talked about home to any of my friends. I never invited any kids over to my house, even though I wanted to. I always went to other kids’ houses instead so no one would know what it was like in my home. I was ashamed of my life, and for not being able to deal with it; this was the start of my depression.

Fear and suspicion of other people was drilled into me from an early age. What went on at home was “none of their business”, they being people at church, teachers, kids at school, the government, or the neighbor lady who listened in on the telephone party line. School counselors were off limits because they might tell someone else who would interfere in “our business”. I would feel immense guilt if I wanted to talk to anyone I knew about my problems. There was no safe place for me to vent. I didn’t know what a hotline was or that you could call to talk to someone anonymously.

I was taught to avoid all forms of outside help. Counselors and therapists and shrinks were not to be trusted. I was depressed all the time, and most of the time I felt like I needed to fake being okay. I felt like a fraud, and like I was divided between two existences. On the outside I had to pretend that everything was fine, and on the inside I suffered. I knew things weren’t right, but I had been taught that admitting mental illness meant you were weak and vulnerable and stupid, and I couldn’t admit those things to myself or anyone else.

I didn’t feel like any of my friendships meant anything, so I pushed everyone out to the farthest circle of my defenses as if they would hurt me like so many people had before. I was being fake with them because I couldn’t trust anyone. By 7th grade I had no real friends, just acquaintances who thought they were friends.

My friend Lisa was the first person I let myself get close to in a genuine way. She was caring, intelligent, wise for her years, and she valued me for myself rather than as the “smart kid”. I felt safe with her, like I didn’t have to pretend to be someone else. I finally allowed her inside my defenses and let her see into my life. I shared way too much of course, but she was supportive and comforting. She returned the favor, letting me know some of her secrets that she couldn’t share with other people.

Since that time I have grown emotionally, but I still struggle to trust anyone. It is difficult to be honest and genuine with people for fear they will hurt me somehow. I have several acquaintances, and a few next level “work friends”, but really only a few friendships that I value enough to where I can have some level of trust. Then I have you, my blog friends, who I trust with almost everything.