So as some of my cutting habits have crawled back into my life, my mother decided that it would be a good idea to send me to yet another therapist. I say it like that because I have gone through five different therapists, and the longest I have stayed with one was for two months.
I don't know why, but I honestly have just never liked therapy. I feel like it's so much time wasted. I would tell myself I could be doing other things, but honestly, other things are usually eating and sleeping.
When it's just me and the therapist in the room, I have no choice but to start talking. Otherwise, they stare at you like at hawk waiting to pounce on you. So I started off with things I liked, writing and reading. (I felt like such a boring person) Then I told her about my forever damaged leg, a story for another time. Eventually though I told her why I was actually there.
I started with 6th grade, then seventh, and ended where I am today. She asked my about the hospital. The mental hospital. Psychiatric hospital. I have been there 5 times, and I stared getting annoyed because I couldn't remember too much about my 2-4th stays. I used to dwell on my past.
Everyday I would force myself to think about the hospital, because even though it isn't supposed to be a happy place, I promise you, ask anyone who has been to one, you meet the best people you will ever know in those places. At least I did. I didn't want to forget about them. I can still see blurred pictured of there faces.
I got upset because I thought I forgot about them, but I really haven't, they have always been with me. That's when I realized that I had been holding all of my emotions in. All of my feelings. That's why talking about it was so hard, all of my words had been set free. I think I'm going to have to do that more often. Can any one relate?
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