I’ve been seeing my therapist for about six months now. She’s a trauma specialist. I’ve told her things I’ve literally not shared with anyone else. She has seen me disassociate, panic, stare gloomily out the window for a good 40 minutes. She has seen me shout angrily, WHY WHY WHY?? She has seen me sob. She has seen me vulnerable, which is even hard to write because I find that such an excruciatingly hard position to be in. With Anne, I have shared fears, I have looked to the floor in shame and recounted events, I have spilled nightmares and fears. Whispered things that I never thought would leave my mouth. And when things are just too hard, I have scrawled things down on paper and shown them to her. I have also laughed with Anne, talked about my family, shared anecdotes of daily life. Aside from my husband, Anne knows the deep intricacies of my life. What makes me tick. What scares me, the insidious evil within me, what sets me aside from everyone else, what distorts me, when I’m genuinely happy, when I don’t understand things, I have seen counsellors and therapists before, but none I have felt safe with or trusted.
I understand that therapists can get sick, That they have holidays and that they have families that can get sick. The odd change in appointments was fine. But it became forgotten appointments, changes within weeks, promises of rescheduled days but not following through. We talked this through and she was very apologetic and said she would try harder. Now, come Monday, I am sitting in the offices. Its been three weeks because she has been sick again and then had a holiday – that’s ok I understand. But there are things I am keen to discuss. I wait patiently sipping coffee. Time ticks by. After 15 mins I text her to see if she has been held up. She calls immediately. She apologies. She forgot our appointment. I tell her that’s fine, no problem. I put my half drunk coffee down, walk over to the lifts. The lift takes so long. The tears are welling up. Come on, pushing the button over and over. I will not cry in public.
I need to get to my car. I need to get my sunglasses on, I need to start driving, I need to pretend this hasn’t happened.
So many things I wanted to talk about. So many things that will be left unsaid.
I had a call today from the manager of the centre. Turns out Anne had called her concerned and had wanted to explain to her, for her then to explain me how sorry she was and how much she was committed to the therapeutic process and, well, to see if I was ok.
But I was raw. I don’t open up often. There are few people that I am able to confide in. I don’t intend on making any snap decisions where Anne is concerned.
Some people say there’s no timer on getting over things. But maybe there is after all. It certainly seems no one wants to listen.