I had my first “real” therapy session Monday. The previous two were just introductory sessions, getting a feel for the issues I want to try overcome and delving into some of my history. Monday’s session was, well, it happened.
I think in the long run, therapy is going to be good for me. I’ve got a bunch of garbage in my head that I’ve dealt with well for some two decades and counting, but I don’t want to be dragging some of this crap around for another two and I’ve reached the end of what I can self-treat. So yeah, this is going to be helpful. But not immediately.
Right now, my therapist and I are still playing the Getting To Know You Game, where I talk about myself forever and in the process become hyper aware of how much of a depressed and anxious mess I am ALL THE TIME.
Apparently, I was so miserable during my adolescence that I now consider any emotion that isn’t “I want the world to end so the void can take me and cease this eternal suffering” to be okay and moderately healthy. And now, the realization that I’m CONSTANTLY stressed/anxious/depressed has exacerbated those feelings so that it’s become a feedback loop of perceived failure and bitter recriminations.
And the mental gymnastics going on as one part of me despairs that “I’ll never be normal whaaaaaa!” and the rest of me tries to exercise reason and rational thought has left me exhausted.
On the plus side, trying to avoid thinking about and thus becoming entrenched in the quagmire of my neurosis has helped me think a lot more clearly about some of my writing issues, so huzzah!
Hopefully next weeks session yields more productive results. I don’t think I can take being any more self aware of my misery than I currently am.