Therapy Hangover

Therapy hangover (n): That feeling you get when therapy leaves you emotionally raw and unsettled and confused and often drained and exhausted.

Yeah, I'm full of crap. I totally made that definition up. Therapy hangovers are definitely a thing though, and that's how they are for me.

As counter-intuitive as it may seem, I consider therapy hangover to be one of the primary indicators of therapy progress. Seriously, therapy hangovers are hard, but I'm always a little disappointed when therapy comes to a close for the day and I don't develop a bit of a hangover. It's mostly because I'm weird, I guess. 

But it's also because therapy isn't meant to be comfortable. It's not supposed to just be a friendly everyday conversation with the therapist. It's definitely not happy, fun time. It's supposed to challenge you. After all, if not being challenged was going to make things better, I think most of us would have already run with that and fixed things ourselves. I don't think many people really just look forward to the idea of throwing money at someone whose job is, in large part, to make them feel uncomfortable and challenge them and their ways of thinking. But here I am throwing money at someone to do just that. 

If therapy doesn't leave you drained and exhausted and pretty emotionally spent, are you even therapy'ing? I mean, for me personally I think the answer is no. Like I said before, I'm always pretty disappointed when I leave therapy feeling pretty much exactly the same way I did when I went in. It feels like a waste of time and effort and money. That doesn't mean it was a waste, 

Good therapy has always been hard for me because during a session, my brain is just going non-stop and trying to take in everything from session. Afterwards, though, is a different story. After session, everything kind of starts marinating in my brain. For me, that's when I start to have all of the feelings. ALL the feelings. Every damn one. And that's when all of the processing happens. My brain starts going fifty different directions and it's hard to keep up. I start thinking of all of the things I want to address in my next therapy session, knowing full well that unless my therapist pencils me in for four consecutive sessions, there's no way we could possibly cover everything.

I both dread and look forward to the hangover. I mean, I'm not just a glutton for punishment (I mean, maybe just a little bit, I guess, as you probably know if you've read other posts on this blog, which by the way, makes YOU a bit of a glutton for punishment too), but it means I'm being challenged, which I guess is objectively a good thing.

Stupid therapy hangovers. Stupid, stupid, productive therapy hangovers.

Progress is hard. Lack of progress is harder.

Stupid Decisions

I did a stupid thing. 

As I started thinking about therapy and talking about when things got scary with the ex, I found that I was right back in that same place I was when I was actually in the situation where I felt like maybe I was just overreacting. According to some people, that's apparently just what I do. Even now, I keep finding myself convinced myself that it couldn't have been as bad as I thought it was. 

Back when things really started the escalate, I started taking notes about the incidents that occurred. It was mostly just to prove to future self that these things were actually happening. Gaslighting is a pretty powerful thing, and I fell right into it. So tonight I ended up going through some of those notes, and oh my god, I didn't realize I had repressed so much stuff. I don't know if it's my brain trying to protect me from the past or if my memory is just legitimately that bad, but either way it was so overwhelming going back and reading those notes after so many years. 

I forgot about him making the threat that one of us would be dead before I got the kids. How if I left with the kids he'd call the police and tell them that I kidnapped them and that I was abusing them. I forgot about the other times he told me to kill myself and all of the horrible things he said to the kids. The sheer number of times he accused me of threatening to stab or kill him in front of the kids and him telling them I wanted him dead. It made my stomach turn. I forgot how often he threatened to kill himself, also in front of the kids. How he accused me of beating the kids any time they cried. Threatening to beat the kids and then blame me for it. Accusing me of cheating on him when I did anything by myself. Threatening to abandon me and the kids when we'd go out of town. Pinning me down and restraining me. Physically blocking me from removing myself from the volatile situations. Throwing things at me. Throwing chairs, throwing toys, throwing whatever the hell he could get his hands on when he was mad. The list goes on and on (and on and on and into things I don't care to get into on a public forum). For years I took notes. It took all those years for me to stop believing that I somehow deserved all of this and to convince myself that I wasn't just making shit up. 

As I sit here and wonder why I did a dumbass thing like going through those notes, I realized that maybe it's because I still minimize the abuse in my head. Maybe it's because I always still feel the need to call it "abuse" in quotes - because part of me still believes that I'm just blowing things out of proportion. Maybe I've just repressed a lot of it - in fact, I know I've done that. Maybe it's been a defense mechanism, but "forgetting" so much of what happened has actually been really invalidating. I obviously don't need to relive all of those things and revisit all of the emotions, but maybe I need the reminder from time to time. Maybe remembering what I went through and why it felt so scary and dangerous is validating, and maybe I need that validation sometimes. 

Maybe I need to remember that it actually happened so I can stop feeling like such a fraud when I say I was abused. Perhaps I need a reminder that it wasn't my fault and that I didn't deserve any of it. Maybe I need to remind myself why that marriage was so toxic and terrifying - not because I want to relive it, but because maybe it'll help me give myself some credit for doing what I needed to do to get out. Maybe it'll help me be gentler with myself for taking the time to make sure I could get myself and the kids out safely. Maybe I need a reminder that I got out as soon as I felt safe and strong enough to do it, and that's what really matters. Therapy was a huge step for me at that point. I need to remember that I took that huge step for myself AND the kids - though truthfully, it was mostly for the kids. Maybe the guilt I feel for not getting the kids out of the situation sooner should instead be kindness and understanding towards myself for taking big steps for them and not just giving up entirely. Let's be honest, I didn't take those steps for me. At that point, if it were just me, I'd have given up on life in a heartbeat. I nearly did anyway.

Reading back over all of those things mostly made me sad and angry - but not anxious or afraid. I managed to keep myself from being consumed by the memories, which is no small feat for me. But more than anything, remembering those things and reminding myself that these things that happened and were very, very real helped me feel more able to own my trauma instead of continuing to have trouble convincing myself that it was even trauma to begin with.

Therapy for the win. 

And How Does That Make You Feel...?

"How does that make you feel?"

Broken. It doesn't even matter what the lead up to that question is - the answer is always "broken."

So I sit in silence, trying desperately to figure out what I should be feeling - if I knew what feelings were. I drop my gaze to try to hide how completely inept I feel at something that should come naturally. I close my eyes, apparently looking for the answer on the insides of my eyelids. Spoiler alert - they're not there. Maybe he'll forget he asked the question. 

He stares with an intensity that makes me want to slip down into my chair and pretend I don't exist. Honestly it's not even intensity at all - it's just the fact that it's eye contact that makes it feel intense to me. My chest starts to tighten and the anxiety starts to build. Apparently he's not going to forget. 

"I don't know," I respond quietly, feeling entirely defeated and downright stupid at this point. Then I freeze. Shut up and shut down - it's what I do best.

It's not a cop out. It's not me trying to be obstinate or difficult. It's honesty. I don't know what I'm feeling. I don't know what I should be feeling. I just honestly do not know. And there aren't really adequate words to describe how anxious it makes me to not know how to answer that one damn question. 

It's not that I don't feel. Sometimes I think I feel too much. It's just that the feelings tend to just end up as an intertwined mess of emotion. No real discernment between where one feeling ends and another begins. It's like someone just dumped out a bunch of emotions and mixed them all together. All of the emotions are there but they've turned into this totally different thing and the only way to describe this new "thing" is chaos. In the end, this mess of emotions just feels like far too much...but also nothing at all. Sometimes emptiness and being emotionally overwhelmed don't really feel so different to me - and feeling everything and feeling nothing are both pretty goddamn difficult to process. 

It's not that I don't want to learn to identify and attach names to that jumbled mess of feelings. I do. I want to feel like a normal human being, but being put on the spot and watched until I come up with something I think is probably what I *should* be feeling only succeeds in making finding an answer to that question honestly feel impossible. And it's not really helpful because hell, I don't know if that's what I'm actually feeling or if it's just something that sounds "right."

"How does that make you feel?"

It makes me feel anxious and stressed out and inadequate. It makes me cry tears of frustration and discouragement and brokenness. That's how it makes me feel - thanks for asking. Next question, please...

Be Gentle With Yourself

"Be gentle with yourself." It wasn't the first time I heard this from a therapist. I was hoping this time I might be able to take it more to heart than I was able to the first time. To be fair, though, the first time was when I was in the middle of the abuse and my perception of myself was far more fucked up than it is now (though there's still a looooooong way to go). Being gentle with myself back then was more a matter of not deliberately hurting myself. I'd love to say I'm past that now, but even though it's been years since I've done it, it's still not behind me, I'm not sure if it ever will be completely. Conditioning can be a real bitch. Stupid Mary and her little lamb... (short story, but I'll just let you wonder).

    "I give you permission." Now, this was the first time I had heard this from a therapist in conjunction with the "Be gentle with yourself." My first reaction was, "I don't need *your* permission to be gentle with myself." But I think this week has taught me that, in the place that I'm at right now, maybe I actually do need that permission. Maybe I need a reminder that it's okay to be in a funk or struggle with things. It's okay to sometimes be a little short with people. It's not something to specifically aim for, but sometimes it happens and I need to be able to get past it without repeatedly kicking my own ass for it. But sometimes the reminder is helpful that it's okay to struggle sometimes. There's not really a way to get past things without wading through some pretty shit emotions.

Still, though, even though I know I often feel like I need permission to have feelings (hence being in therapy to begin with), it's still weird to hear someone say that they're giving me permission to feel. But sometimes someone else knows exactly what I need to hear even when I don't.

That's Fucked Up

"That's fucked up."

There's something I didn't really expect to hear from my therapist. I'll be the first admit that it caught me a bit of guard. Okay, okay - a LOT off guard.

We had just been discussing some things related to my childhood and relationships with my family. I made an offhand comment about feeling like an outsider. Without even thinking about it, I made a comment referring to the rest of my family as "their own little family." I scrambled to "correct" myself - "Well, I mean, of course I was part of the family too I guess, but I felt like I wasn't really part of the family unit. 

"I want you to know that I'm saying this from a place of empathy... That's fucked up."

Then he asked me how I felt about him saying that. After giving my brain a few seconds to process, my thoughts went pretty much like this:

1.  Sweet! My therapist will drop an F bomb! I know it's a little ridiculous that this was literally my first response, but it's really kind of big deal for me. It's a level of comfort thing. It means I can feel more comfortable being myself. It means I don't have to try to censor my thoughts. It was weirdly comforting and encouraging.

2. It made me feel validated. I mean, it's not my therapist's job to validate my feelings, of course, but for someone who constantly questions the validity of her own feelings, it's nice sometimes to know that I wasn't so off base after all. Sometimes it's nice that other people think certain things are as fucked up as I think they are. Yeah, I know I'm insecure. Maybe that'll change at some point, but for now I pretty much live in my insecurity, so some validation every once is helpful for my sanity.

3. It made me kind of sad. Because yeah, it is fucked up. The fact that I feel so disconnected from the rest of my family IS messed up. Or is it ME that's messed up for feeling that way? It's sad either way but is it the situation that's fucked up or is it me? And now I'm anxious that it's totally me that's fucked up.

Therapy is hard and uncomfortable, and it only really works when there is trust. I'm only a few sessions in, but for the first time in a while, I'm optimistic. After so many failed medications and a failed course of TMS therapy, it's kinda nice to have hope.

Therapy always dredges up some ugly, painful, uncomfortable stuff. At least maybe I've found another good therapist that will be able to help me work through it (and not be offended by my potty mouth). I've had such cruddy luck with most of the therapists I've seen, so for now I'm just appreciative for the objective point of view. I am ready to be done with all of the mental health professional dumpster fires...

I Am Wallpaper

Weird comparison, right? But it's kinda true.

For starters, we're both pasty. Granted wallpaper is pasty in a way that's objectively useful, whereas I'm mostly just pasty in a way that makes me sunburn in the presence of a 100 watt lightbulb. I think we can all agree that the ability to sunburn isn't a particularly impressive or useful quality. It must be my Irish heritage shining through. So apparently I'm not actually even as useful as wallpaper. 

Pastiness aside, though, when people walk into a room, you'll almost never hear them exclaim, "That's some glorious wallpaper!" On it's best day, wallpaper aims to blend into its surroundings - it just kind of hangs out. Sure, it might contribute to the overall ambiance of a room, but it's never the star. On its best day, it simply exists. We have that in common. Wallpaper just isn't usually terribly remarkable...

...But sometimes it surprises you with its degree of awful. Sometimes it's just so bad that it's like getting punched in the face with a whole fistful of hideous as soon as you walk in the door. Growing up, we had a mudroom and the only thing I remember about it is that it had this god awful wallpaper with neon green and florescent orange flowers. It literally hurt to look at it. On its worst day, wallpaper can be an absolute train wreck - awful to look at but just so horrible that you can't look away. 

The same is true for me. On the best day, I just kind of exist. I'm not spectacular or the center of attention. I fade into the background and go through life more as a spectator than a participant.

Then there are my trainwreck days. On those days I'm the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. The glue starts to degrade and peel away, revealing the hot mess underneath that I've been trying my damnedest to hide. Being a hot mess is what I'm best at really *shrug*

But on the positive side, wallpaper is pretty damn difficult to get rid of, and the fact that I'm still around proves that I am too. So at least there's that...