Today, i’m going to see my new therapist and i’m going to try to talk about the experience i had with the therapist i had for eight years (see my previous post, ‘Trying to Get Blood Out of a Stone’. I don’t know yet whether i can bring myself to approach this delicate subject that has caused me so much pain. My therapy is in five hours from now and i already feel sick with anxiety and know i can’t get breakfast down this morning.
I have made a list of some of the points i want to talk about which is by no means a comprehensive list of all that happened. But my brain won’t allow my to compute that yet. There is so much to talk about, i know that i will barely scratch the surface today.
One of the things i want to say say is how the first therapist would repeatedly tell me that she loved me, hugged me tight and kissed me on the forehead at the end of each session. She felt like the mum that i’d always been looking for and that i was the vulnerable, hurt child, which indeed, i was. I loved her like a mum and felt that she thought of me as a daughter.. This happened three times a week for eight years! I can’t go any further on that part at the moment but hope to be able to in a future post.
The other subject i want to bring up is how i went to see her only three hours after my father passed away when i’d been at the hospital all night and had had no sleep. I know he was the father who abused me so dreadfully, but when it came to his death, i cried. Tears, not so much for the loss of my abusive dad, but for the loss of the father i never had, the father i’d always wished i’d had. And i cried for the loss of my childhood.
My therapist asked what i was crying for and when i sobbed out “my dad has died”, she got angry with me and shouted loud and clear “So what are crying for? You ought to be glad” and suddenly i felt like this was a dagger plunged deep into my heart.. I cowered as she yelled at me. Then, suddenly, she walked out of the room saying, “After all my hard work; i’ve been wasting my time with you; you get on with it then!” with a look of anger i have rarely seen before! I left in floods of tears. Not only had the i lost the father i never had but now i’d lost my beloved therapist which was like losing my mum as well.
I don’t remember how i got home but when i did, i was inconsolably distraught and couldn’t contemplate life without her. And i don’t recommend the course of action that i took then. I remember counting out the pills, everything i had in the house; there must have have been nearly a hundred! After taking a blade to my arms, i somehow got those tablets down me, washed down with half a litre of rum! It really was a genuine suicide attempt; (if anyone gets to the point if they are contemplating taking their own life, PLEASE, I beg you. GET HELP QUICKLY).
My neighbour found me, after i repeatedly didn’t answer her phone calls. I don’t remember anything after getting home but raw emotion, then taken over by a sense of calm when i had planned my course of action and knew i would be out of this pain and nightmare soon.
I’ve been told that i nearly lost my life, it was a fight for the medics to keep me alive; i was in intensive care for two weeks of which i am completely obliviously unaware of. Then transferred to a hospital ward, eventually where they weren’t exactly keen to greet me. After all, this was self-inflicted. Wasn’t it?