I wish I had something new to write about. But I don't. I am still the same fucking person who can't fuck.
I've been to two meetings with a psychologist to evaluate if their firm could help me, and in that case who and how. Apparently they've decided to help me, but I'm on a waiting list. So sick of waiting lists.
The first time I met the psychologist, I noticed that she was a woman. Then, quite quickly after my first observation, I noticed she was a hugely pregnant woman. I felt like I was going to traumatize her unborn child with the stories I was about to utter in its presence. I still feel a bit guilty about it, really, but I suppose that is just misplaced emotion.
That first meeting (holy crap, I typoed that word to emeting. How philosophical is that shit? Damn.) was a bit awkward from my end. She was fine. Better than fine. Obviously very good at her job as I started sobbing ten minutes into the appointment. Very embarassing. I couldn't stop crying for hours afterwards. I was very dehydrated.
What got me going was, as per usual, talking about my dad and how much I miss him. She listened very kindly to me explaining that my dad wasn't a bad man, he was a sad man who did bad things because he didn't know how to express himself any better.
I told her all about the alcohol, family dysfunction and blah-de-blarghhh. She listened kindly to that too. Afterwards, and for days, I felt furious with my mother. I still don't understand her role in the whole thing.
When I saw the therapist today she asked some more specific questions about the blah-de-blarghhhs. She commented on how I speak about horrible things and I don't show any emotion about it besides laughing. I told her that I'm aware that I don't. I think I laugh because the things I say sound so absurd. Absurd things make me laugh. My other feelings are walled off that it would take tremendous force, I think, to access them. Or some well asked questions, I suppose.
As proof that I really don't have anything new to say, the last chunk of therapy time was devoted to the massive amount of guilt I feel toward my husband because I am not a bangin' type of girl. I also feel angry, sorry, alone, lonely, misunderstood, mousey, very very very sorry and also sorry about it.
Really. Nothing new. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along.
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