I went to therapy today and began pouring my heart out about how relaxed and free I felt while I was away. No listening for footsteps, no waiting for the attack, no fearing the darkness, no jumping at shadows. I felt for the first in time in years, free. I could hear the birds, enjoy the view and read my book. Since being home, I’d had a horrible nightmare, there was this foreboding sense of dread and….
Her cell rang.
She answered it.
She previously flippantly told me to ignore it, of course she wouldn’t answer she said. This time she did.
She spoke to her daughter for a good ten minutes.
Then she looked she at me, ‘where were we?’ She said.
I felt tiny and weak and embarrassed. I had been exposing my raw truth, my vulnerabilities and her cell had taken precedence. I should have confronted the issue – I am in other respects an assertive woman. But I couldn’t. It didn’t seem important, I didn’t seem important. My worth, my story, my predicament didn’t seem worthy.
I closed up after that. I said a few things and her responses seemed to ‘canned’ and at times not quite fitting. I wonder if she was listening to me properly. At one point I gazed out the window thinking about how beautiful blue the sky was. She told me I had a look of determination on my face, like I was planning something. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. It almost felt like I’d come to see this rip off psychic reader, she was off base with my expressions and my comments, trying to second guess what I wanted to hear. It felt painful, disappointing. The hour dragged. When the doorbell rang and she announced that was her next client I felt relief. She hugged me at the end. Even that didn’t felt genuine.
When I go into therapy I tackle the offender and I tackle my abusive ex. Today I was weak and they were strong. They won again.
I came home I felt so drained. I fell into a very deep slumber.
It feels lonely. Ok so my therapist took a call, not a big deal, although her bloody phone is always going off in our sessions. Taking a personal call was probably a tad unprofessional, but the point is that in my ONE HOUR a week I get to unload all that nasty stuff. All the fears and anxieties , the stresses and pains of the past. Today it felt like my own therapist felt I wasn’t worth that.
I’m wondering if therapy is more hassle than it’s worth.