Friday, January 7, 2011

Is this the beginning?

Therapy isn't working.  Medication isn't working.  I still feel like I'm slowly dying.  I'm disappearing and in my place is this monster.  I've become a puddle of flesh.  A lump on the bed.  When I said this in therapy, my therapist said that she's not helping me and how that must be so disappointing.  I said it has nothing to do with her.  I'm the one who has to change myself.  I'm supposed to talk in therapy and I don't.  I don't know what to talk about.  I don't know how to help myself.  She said that she has something to do with it.  That the way we interact matters.  This scared me.  "Are you going to transfer me to someone else."  I asked.  "Do you want me to transfer you to someone else?"  I said. "No!"  She said, "I had no plans on transferring you.  I was planning on keeping you."  Weird choice of words.  Did she do that on purpose or was that a Freudian slip?

Today my therapist told me to call her if I need her between sessions.  I think I worried her on Thursday and today.  The offer was weird and not something I will ever do except to cancel our session or something like that.  I would never want to contact her on her own time.  That's her time.  I pay for one hour twice a week.  I don't deserve more than I pay for nor would I ever take it.  "Why would I do that?"  She responded with, "So I can be there with you and you won't be as alone or isolated (emotionally)."  Then I said, "I'll still be alone even if I call you."  She agreed that I was right, but still wants me to call her so she can be there for me.  I guess it's sweet, but I don't think it's a sincere offer and I guess the prospect that it might be freaks me out a little.
We had been talking about my intrusive thoughts.  It doesn't matter where I am or what I am doing, sometimes I get sucked into this world in my head of unpleasant thoughts, feelings, memories, and I forget where I really am.  When I finally come back to earth, it freaks me out a little bit that I'm here and not there.  It makes me feel crazy.  I'm no longer having a good time, but I have to pretend like I'm having a good time because I don't want to freak anyone else out.  I don't want other people to know just how crazy I am.  Then I get angry at myself for not being able to control it.  This has happened to me since I was pretty young, but lately it has gotten worse.  Lately I'm not able to pull myself back as quickly.  I really think I'm losing it.  I'm not sure it's worth it to fight it anymore.  Isn't mental illness inevitable for me anyway?  Fighting it is just futile.  I should just accept that I'm crazy.  I should just accept that I will always be crazy and that it will never get any better.  Medication doesn't help.  Therapy doesn't help.  I'm always going to feel like this.  I'm always going to feel like I'm dying.  Always.  I'm always going to be such a fucked up, self-pitying loser.  I thought life was going to get better when I grew up but it didn't.   

She asked me if I ever have thoughts of hurting myself or suicide.  That's one loaded question.  She should have just asked, "would you like me to lock you up?"  I said, "no."  And she asked me if I was just saying that.  I didn't answer.  "Let me rephrase that.  Would you tell me if you were having those thoughts?"  I said, "no."  She asked me why and I told her because she could make my life even harder.  She said, "because I would try to protect you and the steps to get there are pretty hard and scary."  I didn't answer.  I wasn't sure if it was a question or not.  She said she would like to know if I was having those kinds of thoughts because she cares.  Cares?  About what?  Me?  Her career?  The money?  Telling your therapist of those kinds of thoughts is the same as committing yourself.  That is not something I think I need.  It's not something I think will help me.  It's not something I want and I know it will make it nearly impossible for me to adopt a child in the future.  I think it would make becoming a therapist nearly impossible as well, if that's what I really want to do.  I can't imagine calling into work in that scenario.  "Hey, I can't come to work today because I've been committed."  I will not call into work crazy.  Not going to happen.  Besides it's pretty clear that I'm horrible at attempting suicide.  I failed twice with pills, and when I was 15 I tried to shoot myself in the head with my foster parents gun, but missed because my wrist was too weak for the kickback.  Before all of you freak--Don't worry.  I'm not suicidal.

I just feel like I'm wasting my time trying to fix myself.  I'm damaged goods.  I'm irreparably broken.  I should just accept that this is what life has for me.  This is as good as it gets for me.  I should stop dwelling on my crap and move on.  I need to stop feeling sorry for myself.  Who cares what happened when I was a child.  It's over now.  I'm not a child anymore.  I should just move on and get over it already.  I loathe that I still think about it.  I loathe that I can still smell, taste, hear, feel things that were years ago!  So freaking long ago.  Get over it already.  Is this the beginning of schizophrenia?  Is this the beginning of the end for me?  I still have a while before I pass the normal onset of schizophrenia.  The chances of becoming schizophrenic are still pretty high for me until I reach 30, and even then I'm not in the clear.  What if I am something worse than schizophrenic?  What if I am like my biological mother or brother?  What if I become like every single biological family member related to my mother?  What if I live my life using and abusing other people?  What if I become like my mother--home bound and all alone in my 40's?  My mother has no one in life.  She is only in her 40's, but she has no teeth, is morbidly obese, and is in a wheel chair.  She lost all her teeth and now has seizures because of years of hardcore drug use.  She never leaves her apartment except to buy grocery and cigarettes.  She does nothing except play Farmville, try to scam people, and write me emails to remind me that she hates me.  Is that my future?  Is that who I really am?  I can't bear the thought of that.  I cannot live with that.