It’s the swinging that does me in.
The way I do a 180 over the course of the week.
There’s a part that shows up confidently, groundedly, saying this is okay.
Safe.
A good thing.
And that part coolly (okay, that might be an exaggeration) even sends an email, because big deal. It’s okay.
Anything goes here, and it’s fine. This is literally the space to address the stuff, to test relationships, to safely experiment needing another person, right?
And we’ll pick up from where we left off.
But as the days go by, that belief disintegrates into a puff of nothingness, a weird vision that never had its roots in reality.
And in its place, the skeptics are back. The eye-rolling cynics who are just so tired of this game called therapy and it asks me why I bother.
And it wants to use some form of sorcery to make that email disappear from my therapist’s inbox and eradicate it from her memory.
And maybe eradicate her from my memory, while we’re at it.
And as the session draws closer and I’m holding the slippery spool of thread, trying to find that end I was supposed to pick up to continue from where we left off, all I find is a tangled mess of threads.
I’m so tired.
Especially since I know that it’s very likely that tomorrow I’ll do the complete 360, trust in this again.
And then I’ll once again start this cycle that will swing me to one side and then to the next.
And I’m nauseous.
All I want is some solid ground.
