Swampwater Debutante

Therapy has become something of a millstone hanging around my neck.

When I started therapy almost three years ago, my primary goals were to A) stop trying to work up the courage to slash my wrists or overdose and B) learn to be happy with the life that I had, because it was – and is – a good life, I was aware enough to know that, to know that it would be stupid to throw it away because some jackass was bringing me way, way down.

And I think that I’ve accomplished that. My last seriously suicidal episode was in July of 2008, and it was amazing how quickly it cleared up once The Sociopath was ejected from my life. And my life is really good. I’m happy. I have the ability to remind myself that if things get shitty, I will come out on the other side, the bad time will end. I have re-tapped into my survival instinct.

I have the means to live my own life, mostly comfortably. I’m happy a large amount of the time. I’ve been off my stabilizers for the last year or more (I think more), I haven’t needed them. That gaping, aching black pit of despair is, at least for now (because it’s never for good), well behind me. I’m glad for it.

Due to a scheduling mishap, there was a time in the last month where I went three weeks without therapy. And I was fine. Actually better. I was motivated to clean up and work on my novel (I’ve connected the first seven chapters into a cohesive narrative). I went back to the gym (my biceps are kinda getting killer awesome). I saw Boondock Saints II a total of five times (okay. I would have done that therapy or not). I started learning autoharp (I can play half a song). I cleaned house (it’s a mess again. this may never change).

Then I went back to therapy and it’s all…blah. Dr. Dana, I adore her, but suddenly she’s become an authority figure, and we know how I feel about authority figures.

And she’s back on about my weight, which does two things: make me not give a shit, and then to give much too much of a shit.

I have plans to write a body image blog post, which will involve some sort of cheesecakey photos of me to make the point that I am comfortable with my body. And I am! I go to the gym because I enjoy it, I feel happy and good afterwards. The motivating factor is to get stronger and healthier. Whatever else happens is whatever else.

When I timidly brought up the notion of tapering off, Dr. Dana said, “Well, let’s get you on a steady weight loss schedule and we’ll talk.”

My first resentful thought was, But that’s not what I hired you for.

It isn’t. And I don’t know what to do now. Therapy is more of a chore than a help to me at this point, but I don’t feel comfortable with stopping it. Doesn’t the medical professional know more than I do about when I am well enough to stop?

I don’t want to stop anyway. I just feel that I am well enough to go every three weeks instead of two, now. But what if I am not right?

Maybe I won’t be well enough until I feel like running into my ex isn’t going to devolve into either a fistfight or a nervous breakdown. I go back and forth as to which it is more likely to be.

All I know is that for a while there I was making progress like I hadn’t seen in years, and now I am not. I have to figure out what to do.