Here are the three actual rules that my therapist and I have about texting, along with some lessons I’ve learned along the way.
I feel like I’m taking myself to the repair shop. Again. Maybe I’m one of those models that Consumer Reports would rate as a “lemon,” because I have so many issues that just aren’t easy to fix. And as soon as I fix one thing, another thing doesn’t work right. (This is where a cheerier,…
When people ask me how I’m doing, if I know them well, I answer, “Up and down, but much more up than down these days.” If I don’t have a close relationship with the questioner, I say “I’m doing great, love working part-time.” Both are essentially true. And yet last Friday, I wrapped a leather…
Lately, I don’t think very much about suicide. It’s not that I have been beating down suicidal impulses, but simply that when I’m doing better, I don’t think about dying. But then there was last night.
Today’s story is about thoughtlessness, uncertainty, fear, responsibility, and why I probably shouldn’t text with my therapist, even though I would hate to give it up.
I have my intake appointment with a psychiatric nurse practitioner. She seems knowledgeable, but the jury’s still out.
It helps me to bear this depressive episode when I tell myself it can’t last forever.