So, I'm no stranger to therapy.
I pretty much did not fare well the first time I was pregnant. I went from being the girlfriend, to the wife, to soon-to-be mother, and from independent working woman, to full time student, to working and going to school- all within 5 month time frame. I just didn't deal well. And being pregnant makes me crazy... I think that's pretty common.
While I was in school, they offered free counseling with grad students who were working toward getting their Masters or PhD and needed hours and practice. It was video taped so a certified therapist could go over and make sure they were doing ok and help them improve.
Man it helped a lot. Not only was I able to successfully kind of communicate with my husband, I didn't drive us to divorce. The therapist was able to third party into my head a little to let me know what was worthy of anger, sadness, irritation and was wasn't. She taught me ways to let the stuff go that wasn't worth it and to talk out what was.
Then I stopped school and stopped therapy.
Today was the first day of therapy with a real, graduated doctor in psychology.
I don't want to ever do that again.
She asked me questions no one has ever asked me. She delved into my past. Into my deep, dark self that I don't go. She asked me question about things that I didn't think were an issue and then moved onto areas where they became an issue.
I told her things I don't talk about because it's embarrassing.
I'm so exhausted I can't even believe I am typing right now.
I left teary. Sat in my car and cried. Enjoyed hiding behind my giant sunglasses so no one could see me cry.
I don't want to go back and yet I will. She thinks that I have so much baggage that I haven't, can't, don't know how to deal with that I am chronically depressed. She has high in the sky apple pie hopes that I'll be able to get off meds all together and learn to cope. Learn to soothe myself without my blankie or other means that aren't normal.
After I sleep off what I dealt with today, I'll kind of explain what she thinks is going on. My traumatic dating life, my neglected upbringing, the bullying, the feelings of self hate, worthlessness, and the need for validation that I never got. I also seem to have signs of social anxiety and had no idea.
But I apparently am for real ADD mothafucka's. So, there's that. That explains my forgetfulness aka flakiness and my severe inability to organize things. You can imagine how the ADD would really throw a wrench in the house keeping, chores, kid raising, personal hygiene, etc.
Demons begone and let the healing begin.