This is the first in what I intend to be a series of posts where I reflect on my weekly therapy sessions. I’m writing this series for a couple of reasons. First, I hope that it will be interesting and helpful for me to reflect on my therapy in writing a couple of days after it takes place. And second, I hope some of my thoughts might be interesting or helpful for other people who find their way here, who are going through a similar process, who know someone who is going through something like this, or for any other reason.
Having said that, this week’s therapy session felt rather pointless, and this is going to be a very short post.
I was very tired and very fatigued. I couldn’t think properly and it felt like too much effort to pretend I wasn’t feeling depressed and suicidal – so I didn’t. I cried and told her everything. She seemed to think it was good that I’d told her the truth. I don’t know, myself. I don’t feel worse, and I don’t feel better. Maybe it’s good she knows the truth. But the other truth is that for anything to get better, I have to change and that’s why I’m going to therapy. Not to whinge about how rotten I’m feeling right now.