Oh Christ, it’s therapy day again. *GULP*.
You see, it’s all well and good being brave and telling your therapist the truth about weird and embarrassing things whilst hiding behind an email, but then you have to go and sit in front of them and say stuff to their face. I’m not such a fan of that bit.
Maybe I could hide under a blanket whilst I speak to her tonight? Or maybe we could have the session by phone so she can’t see my face? … Ooh or maybe I could just not go?
I’m scared. I’m scared because I feel stupid and ashamed of what I’ve told her, about how I felt and well basically the whole thing is a ginormous bowl of cringe soup isn’t it?
It’s weird because it doesn’t make any logical sense to me and it’s weird because although it hurt a week ago, I don’t feel that way today (which I predicted would be the case).
I am holding on to the fact that T will say “this is the work”, that she will be kind and that she won’t shame or punish me for my feelings. I know she won’t and that helps a lot .. but… but still, it’s weird and cringe and uncomfortable.
Im holding on to previous experiences where I’ve gone to her feeling like this over weird or embarrassing things and remembering how she made me feel relaxed and how I left feeling so much better. I know that her sitting with me whilst I process any feelings is good for me – and her demonstrating that there’s another way to have my feelings responded to other than shame and punishment is what I need.
And I trust her. I trust her to help me and I trust her to be gentle and kind. I trust that she will help make me feel better. I trust that this time tomorrow, I’ll be writing out how relieved I am.
And she’s still held good. I haven’t turned her bad. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to quit therapy, not at all.
I just don’t want to feel the vulnerability that I will feel I suppose. I’m not used to being the vulnerable one in the adult/child relationship with my mum which is mirrored with T. It feels wrong and I guess dangerous and scary.
And yet I have this real need inside me to let it all pour out. To have her help contain me in it all – all the mess and the pain and the fear and the grief.
I want to projectile vomit the whole lot up and let her help me. I don’t want to have to clean the vomit up myself like I (literally) had to do as a child.
Being vulnerable is scary but I know it’s what I need.