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,…
Even when therapeutic relationship is good, my sense that my therapist is getting tired of me is painfully close to the surface.
After suffering from depression for well over 20 years, I’m taking it seriously in a way I never did before. It used to be I’d take an anti-depressant and go to therapy once every two weeks, not feel that great but manage to take care of my life so, okay, good enough. Not anymore. Considering…
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 love being able to text with my therapist, but sometimes it doesn’t work quite the way I want it to.
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.