Thursday, January 13, 2011

Words

Last night a couple of friends came over to eat dinner and play board games because they needed cheering up after receiving horrible news from their vet after recently losing another one of their pets.  I’m really not a board games kind of person, but my gf loves board games.  She gets extremely competitive.  It’s fun to watch her struggle to be a good sport when things aren’t going her way.  It’s pretty adorable.  Most board games are not my thing at all, but I really like the people and one of the games was actually a lot of fun.   I tried really hard to have fun.  I tried really hard not to be a downer.   One friend I’ve known for five years and her gf I’ve known for just over a year but I consider them both great friends.  My friends are amazing girls and it’s usually pretty hard to feel sad when they are around.   Usually their faces make me feel better.  Usually I don’t have to pretend that I’m having a good time.  Last night I felt like a fraud and then I felt guilty.  I felt like a fraud laughing and, teasing, and telling jokes.  It was so draining to be who I used to be.  It was so draining to be who my friends expect me to be.  It was so draining to be a normal person.  Eventually I did have a little bit of fun.  It’s so hard not to when you have such great company, but even still, all I really wanted to do was take a really hot shower for an insanely long time.  I just wanted to be somewhere I didn’t have to pretend to be a good person.   I just wanted to pretend I was sleeping.  That’s all I’ve been doing lately – pretending to sleep.  Sometimes I actually do sleep, but never at night and never for very long.  I can’t tolerate the dreaming.  I can’t calm down enough to pass out.   I've spent most of this week in bed yet I've hardly slept at all.  I lie in bed and think.  That's all I do.  Maybe I think too much.  Occasionally I drift to sleep only to be awakened by some crazy dream.  I think about all the things I could be doing instead, but nothing is remotely worth leaving the safety and comfort of my bed.


Today I saw my psychiatrist and my therapist.  My psychiatrist was interested in hearing about my foster mother.  It was a little uncomfortable because she doesn’t normally do therapy.  She just gives out drugs.  I told her I’ve been depressed and I can’t sleep but I don’t think it has anything to do with the drugs.  She asked me if I have thoughts about hurting myself three times.  Why do people keep asking me that?  That question makes me extremely uncomfortable.  It feels like a trick question.  It feels like a trap.  I left my psychiatrist with a prescription of Ambien.  I already know Ambien doesn’t work for me but at this point I’ve given up on finding a pill that will knock me out but not make me a zombie.  I’ve given up on ever getting enough sleep. 

I had therapy right after my doctor’s appointment.  I sat on that fake leather sofa and immediately felt the pressure.  That familiar pressure I feel ever single week.  The pressure to talk about something.  The pressure to use my time wisely.  The pressure to make a difference in my own life.  The pressure to fix myself.  Instead of doing anything productive I just sit on the sofa with a fuzzy orange pillow in my lap, tapping my foot uncontrollably.  My therapist is silent for a few minutes as usual.  After a few minutes she usually starts with a few prompting questions.  “How was your week?”  I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don’t know.”  For some reason I’m having difficulty recalling most of the session.  I felt really agitated like we were arguing the whole time.  Eventually I said, “I’m just so tired,” before I broke down.  I pushed my hands into my face fighting the urge to sob uncontrollably.   My therapist said “I know you are,” in a very sweet maternal tone.  My therapist wants to talk to my psychiatrist.  This seems like such a bad idea.  I don’t like the idea of two people talking about my insanity.  I don’t like people brainstorming about what to do with me.  Nothing good has ever come of that for me.  I told my therapist that meds don’t really work anyway and she said that she believes the right medication can work for me.

I told my therapist how my youngest sister and my mother have been writing sweet messages on Facebook to each other saying how much they love each other.  “That must be so devastating to see.”   I broke down again.  “What’s wrong with me?  Why doesn’t anyone want me?  My own mother doesn’t want me.  My father doesn’t want me.  Maggie doesn’t want me.  None of my foster parents wanted me.  What’s wrong with me?  Why am I such a fucked up person?  I’ve fucked up everything in my life for my entire life.”  I told her how I’m a horrible person and that my life is never going to change.  Medication can’t help me and therapy can’t help me.  I’m just a screwed up person.  “You get angry at yourself a lot. You blame yourself.  You have a hard time tolerating imperfection in yourself,” My therapist said.  “Who else would I get angry at?  Who else would I blame?  I’m the one who fucks up my life.  I’m the one who makes my own life hell.  I’m not looking for perfection.  I’m just looking not to be so fucked up.”  My therapist said, “You blame yourself for everything.  You beat yourself up for everything.  You have no tolerance for yourself.  It’s really hard to watch.”  Her voice cracked as she said this.  That startled me.  Why does my therapist keep crying?  Am I really that depressing?  Am I really that sad and pathetic? 

I have therapy tomorrow too.  I really don't want to go.  I've thought up reasons to cancel the session all day today.  I'm not feeling good.   I'm broke.  I'm really tried.  Those were the only ones I could come up with and none of them are good enough reasons not to go.  Am I supposed to hate therapy this much?  Is therapy ever going to help me?  I wonder if my therapist dreads seeing me as much as I dread seeing her?  Probably.

I’ve wanted to write, to blog, but I have no more words.  Writing seems pointless.  Words seem inutile.  Therapy is nothing but words.  It's as if I'm shouting into vangough's ear.  I'm shouting for help.  I'm shouting for rescue.  I shout and I shout but I don't really know what I'm shouting for.  It doesn't matter anyway because no one hears me.  My words are wasted.  The ears are deaf.  My words are pointless.  All the energy I put into expressing them is wasted.  It's not worth it anyway.  Nothing is going to change.  Nothing is going to get better.  I'm not going to feel better.  Nothing will ever change for me.  I keep waiting for it to get better.  I'm waiting for the light at the end of the long dark tunnel that's been my life.  I'm waiting for the point of all this suffering.  I honestly thought that my life was full of so many hurdles and so much pain because there was going to be something worth it in the end.  I thought I was going to become someone amazing.  I was going to do something important in this world.  I thought all the suffering was to prepare me for the amazing things to come.  I thought the suffering was to make me strong enough to handle it.  Nothing ever happened and nothing ever will.  I'm not going to be important.  I'm never going to be someone amazing.  I'm not going to make a difference in this world.  I’m not ever going to be special.  My life is pointless.  It's fruitless.  I contribute nothing.  How foolish of me to have kept this little fantasy going for so long.  I don't know how I thought of it or why I even believed it for so long.  Stupid foolish girl.  I've always been a nobody and I will always be a nobody.  I come from nothing and that’s all I’ll ever be.