This weekend I feel more sad than depressed. It’s more like a feeling, instead of an overwhelming stress state. So that’s maybe good.
Therapy was Thursday evening this time, as I’d already worked from home Monday, so couldn’t Friday. So I got to therapy pretty tired from my workday.
I want to write out the session, but I can’t remember it well through all this sadness. I wanted to know why I’m feeling all this depression after therapy. Ron said I’d emailed him some good reasons. But those were just everything I remembered discussing last session I say. I don’t know what caused this.
I tell him work is better, with this new boss. Even relating to the manager I don’t like, S, is better. My main difficulty in the past week was the huge depression I fell into. Oh, and I went for a cancer check up – it turned out I’m fine, most likely entirely cured. That was a relief, but I was so depressed, I didn’t feel it emotionally much. I felt bad going to the clinic so depressed. Some people who actually had cancer looked at me with kind of fellow feeling – but it was under false pretences – I was lucky, I didn’t have cancer, it was this other thing. Anyway.
I tell Ron the surgeon congratulated me on my great scan results – as if I’d done something special. I told him it was pure blind luck – nothing to do with me. He’d said something like ‘you did great, good for you’. Ron comments that sometimes doctors condescend to patients like that – treat them like children – because it’s a way of avoiding connection. They have to communicate these life and death types of news, and to avoid the emotion of that, they start condescending.
I tell Ron it was maybe something like that, but that overall, this doctor had been great. He seemed genuinely happy for me. Another person there though, a researcher, was completely condescending….I’d agreed to fill out his survey. Man, he treated me like someone who was child-like. I tell Ron, my colon is a long way from my brain – my brain is fine. My colon is actually fine also, thank you God.
I talk about my ex, about how it was when we lived together. How he is a mess of anxiety, and if everything doesn’t go exactly how he needs it to go, he would explode with rage. Everything was always all about him in the end, him and his rages. How I basically spent my thirties afraid of him, and trying to avoid him. And that I feel I completely wasted my thirties, being with this man whom I was afraid of. And how I thought a lot of my predicament was about money – I’d tried to get jobs, but people didn’t wish to hire me. I had no specific experience or skills. I guess I’d get so nervous at interviews, it made everyone uncomfortable, and I’d never get the job.
If I’d had money, I would have left. I wonder. I guess I didn’t really figure my parents into the equation – that they were well of by this point, and would likely have helped me. I never felt I deserved help. There wasn’t blood or broken bones – just broken furniture, and a lot of anger and fear. I think my PTSD was just set off by living with my ex, over and over, and so I’d shut down, and just concentrate on surviving.
So at least I’m out of there. It’s actually good – I’m earning money, working consistently, have my own place.
I don’t say this, but I think I had an inner abuser – that’s why I couldn’t deal with the external one. I couldn’t see how inappropriate my ex’s behaviour was, really, because he was mirroring some kind of inner situation.
I don’t express much emotion about any of this. Writing it out feels disturbing though. I wonder if I’d feel less awful if I’d expressed some emotion about all this. Ron doesn’t ask about that, he just listens, so I move on to something else. I’d expect Ron to show more interest in this, but he doesn’t seem to, though he does listen. I wonder if I seem like such a passive victim, it’s hard to deal with. At this point I was an adult, not a child who merits sympathy just for that fact. As an adult, I acted like a complete victim. Maybe it’s hard to comment on that.
I’ll write the rest of the session in the next post.