One day I wander into therapy and blurt out my embarrassing, intimate wish.
My emotions are so raw and close to the surface. I am so in need of care and comfort. I think I am conveying this to my therapist, but she isn’t seeing it, or her responses are too clinical or (my great fear, of course), she doesn’t want to meet it. Or, most likely explanation,…
I think I’m handling it all so well, but I’m kidding myself. I want to be that mature and understanding person, but in fact I’m a bratty child inside.
Ouch – my therapist and I stumble across my pain, and hers.
Every year I struggle with my birthday, which falls at an inconvenient time and sets off my own feelings of being inconvenient or burdensome, my fears of expecting more than I deserve.
Choosing to be healthy; now there’s a thought. I feel that I haven’t even had the mental space to think that thought since, I don’t know, maybe June? Flashbacks, job anxiety, and most of all ruptures with E have kept me on pins and needles for months. During that time, therapy has often seemed a…
I finally let E know quite directly how I’m feeling, and I’m relieved to find out she isn’t sick of me, after all.