well, here I am again. After dreading writing for a few months, dragging my ass to write here to make sure my monthly history doesn't have an odd gap, then realising how many thoughts and emotions I've dammed up as a result of not writing... and then having a million draft, unfinished posts sitting like an underdeveloped fetus in my dashboard, too incomplete to see the light of day, too cruel to delete, but I as a "mother" don't have what it takes to really finish them.
Here I am, million draft posts and all, starting another post. Who knows if this will ever see light of day.
It's the morning of my first therapy session with - in what seems like forever, because she couldn't make the last two scheduled sessions due to medical leave and compassionate leave. I'm someone who's always an intense and sensitive person, which is just a recipe for disaster if that needs spelling out. So, in the month or so that I haven't been able to talk with -, a lot of old fears, insecurities, even thoughts of suicide have crept back into my mind, and now I'm customarily losing sleep on the night before an appointment with IMH. It's not that I'm not tired; it's just that my mind is racing between every single issue I might need help with, that I want someone loving and supporting to talk to about, from every phase of my life, and I'm just... terrified, of it all.
The scope of my problems terrify me. I can smile, I can laugh, I can enjoy myself, I can convince myself to live another day when friends and family are around. But, because I am my own worst enemy, and because I know myself best, I tend to kick myself in my balls the hardest as a result. I'm scared of my multitude of problems. I'm scared of how long it'd take to sort them all out. I'm scared that I'd be unable to ever come clean with mental illnesses with potential employers, so that I could take frequent leaves for more therapy and medication. I'm afraid that I'd never find a loving relationship, all the jargon, terms, and overlapping symptoms that I can associate with. The more I find that describes me, the more afraid I get, yet at the same time not knowing is somehow equally terrifying. Anxiety, depression, dysthymia, rumination, BPD, PTSD, CPTSD, transference... the list goes on and on, and the more I can relate with, the more it terrifies me. How many parts of me are broken? Can I be repaired, and is it worth the time and money to repair something this damaged? Will I have enough time and money to see myself through all this? What if I'm victimising myself again? What if this is my anxiety kicking me in the nuts for no logical reason? What if I'm self diagnosing? Why doesn't anyone ever tell me straight up what's wrong with me? If psychology is a "soft" thing, is there really a definitive way to say what exactly I'm struggling with?
That I can find it in me to still laugh and enjoy fragments of my life at times... even of that too, I am terrified. What if this is escapism? What if the only way I can have some semblance of a normal life is to run away from my problems and pretend I'm okay? How much of a tough appearance until it becomes a bad thing? I'm tired. Of fighting. Of pretending. Perhaps even of existing. I'm tired. I'm scared.
What if the only way I can meaningfully express all this is via a paid professional? Can - be my surrogate friend forever? Can I really never form such relationships by my own power? Am I going to be cripplingly lonely forever?
Is it really so awful to want it all to end?
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