My new therapist text to cancel our first appointment due to her being ill. The following Monday is a holiday. I’m sick of this. Unreliable, sickly therapists. I confirmed receipt of her text and said we’d leave it there. She told me she ‘appreciated my need to take a break from therapy for self care.’
Take a break? Love, I didn’t even get started!
You know I’m so fed up. Fine, fuck it, I’ll go back to what I’m best at, keeping it all inside.
I saw my psychiatrist today. At least psychiatrists seem able to keep appointments. I talked through my slip with my medication and how I managed it. The genuine fear of becoming unwell. My husband and I had watched a couple of horror movies over the weekend, by coincidence both involved rituals summoning evil demons. This is a real fear for me. When my lows reach psychotic level I fear demons coming for me. The movies terrified me and served as a reminder that I really don’t want to get to a point of needing hospitalisation. And although the highs seem appealing with the endless energy and almost super human powers – I’m not a nice person. I’m selfish, nasty, mean, and dangerous.
So I take accountability for looking after my mental health and I’m so lucky that good psychiatrists are easier to find.
But to have some support with the anxiety, the triggers, the nightmares, the PTSD, that would take a knowledgeable, patient and experienced therapist. That, it seems, I am not going to find.
My story stays within me. The broken glass that cuts me from within. The ugly shapes and unhealed scars. The cause of my tears and my silent pain through the night.
No he has no power over me. But the grief, the images, the confusion, the questions, the loneliness. I am alone with it all. Just as it was then, there is no escape.