Danyul Goes To Therapy: The First Session
I'm always nervous before a therapy appointment. I never have any idea how it's going to go. The night before I lay awake, all these things I want to talk about clogging the inner works of my mind making sleep almost impossible, but the morning of, my stomach flip-flops, so does my mood and I arrive at my appointment with nothing on my mind at all.
I arrive a half hour early. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get a ride or have to suffer the 3 transfers on public transit, so I begged and pleaded and ended up here an hour early. I really shouldn't bitch. I'm lucky that I got here at all, even if I was annoyed, pinched and prodded the entire half hour car journey. Somehow it felt like a lot longer.
I was hoping that the 70's colours from two weeks ago were just in my head, but upon opening the door I'm greeted by the semi-familiar colours and the smell of old people. I don't know why it smells like old people. They've got a basket of artificial flours purchased on a makeshift coffee table. And people will still say that healthcare isn't in trouble? I mean, it's not exactly healthcare, but the office could look a little inviting. A sad wrack of pamphlets from what looks like the mid-1990's is purchased in the corner. Various colours, faces of dead people and wording were specifically written to trigger an emotional response stares at me. I'm not buying it. I take the same seat that I did two weeks ago. I miss Chubbs. I shouldn't miss him but I do. I want to punch his face into his brainstem and yet I want to cuddle him. Love is fucked up...So is what I'm hearing through the receptionist's window.
"You're less fertile with tonsils than you are without. Apparently, if you have this surgery and have your tonsils removed if can help you get pregnant." "Are you serious? What do tonsils have to do with pregnancy?" "I dunno, but aren't you looking to get pregnant?" "Yeah, but my tonsils?" Please, if there is a God, never let these two procreate. "I don't like being under, you know? Even for my wisdom teeth, I freaked out." Yes, can I second the idea that neither of them have children? I weep for the future. No need to wonder why I don't want to be in it. I could only imagine what Chubb would have to say about pregnancy and tonsils...then again he still has his and looks pregnant, so who knows.
I'm sat here alone for about 20 minutes before something shuffles in. He's about my size, wearing all grey which I approve of and then I notice his footwear. Fucking crocks. If that's not unsettling then I don't know what is. What kind of a grown man wears crocks when he doesn't have to? He sort of resembles Hagrid's brother, which is fitting because I'm going to see my therapist who looks like Hermonie. I'm just going to call her that. I think I mentioned that in my latest blog. My stomach twitches. I don't belong here. I want to vomit. I want to escape. Gwrap hums along to some song on his iPod while I struggle to concentrate on the blogs that I need to finish. A magazine catches my eye and I desire it. Just as I reach out to steal it, Jessica's head pops into my head. "Dan, that's naughty." Her high-pitched almost nasiley whine fills my head and I pull my hand away from the magazine. Goddamn, she's nagging even when she's miles away. My head hurts. I check the clock. 3 minutes late. What is with all these broads and not being on time? I have to be here on time but they seem to linger around, like a fart a funeral. I'm less than impressed.
.....
The cutest little dog pops out of the door and I have to resist the urge to scream. Hermonie appears behind the doggo welcoming me in. I follow her around the corridor and into her office. The pupper jumps up on the seat next to me. Must resist the urge to take doggo. (Not really, but kinda sorts, I love dogs.) She gives me a quick bit on how she likes to conduct therapy sessions, which is the most productive layout I've ever gotten and tells me to have at it. "How's your week been, Dan?" I'm both glad and impressed shes's remembered my name. Chubbs stays hidden in my bag. I'm not ready to have little Chubb burst forth. "I've just not been coping. It feels like an eternity." "Why don't you just focus on the things in the last two weeks that have been weighing on you?" If only she knew what that meant. I don't think we have enough time in this hour session to cover all that went on, not to mention all of the emotional highs and lows I rode through.
That seems like a fair enough request. Start with the here and now, things that are relevant for you, whatever they are. Practical advice from a therapist never heard this one before. She's already tonnes of points ahead of Melfi. I decide to open with a gem. "I'm seeing dead people." She looks over the desk at me. I can see the cogs in motion, her choosing her words carefully. Internally, I'm smirking. No, Dan, you can't jerk this woman off-technically you can get her off, but that's not why we're here today. You don't want to play mind games. "In my dreams." She looks relieved. "I'm having lucid dreams about dead people that I know. In the dreams I know they're dead, but they don't always seem to know." I pull up some of the dream blogs on my laptop. "I blogged about them, it was kinda helpful. You're on the blog you know!" "I saw!" She was flattered and I liked it. Melfi made no effort to get to know me through my work which is more telling than anything I could ever mention in her office. She scores more points with me by saying this and I hope that I'll have to admit less in her office. Talking to someone one on one about feelings, face to face more, is hard for me. She knows from the first session that I'm shut down. I know a few of the reasons, but I want her to work her magic on my noggin. I'm not going to supply all the answers, because if I were to do that, what would be the point of coming here?
"If you're comfortable with reading some of the blogs, then I'd like to hear it." My ego swells, but then I get all shy. My face burns hot. "I can..it's just difficult for me because as a child I had trouble with reading out loud and my classmates humiliated me." I feel rushed when I tell her this. I don't tell her that the reason I struggled was because I was shy and self-conscious, not because I had a learning problem. In hindsight, I probably should have mentioned that because when I mentioned that I had trouble seeing people as people and making emotional connections she asked me if I was on the spectrum. That fucking question! That really would have gotten my boxers in a knot if I was wearing any. Not that there's anything wrong with being on the spectrum, it's just that I'm not. I inform her that I've been tested before and that I'm not. I try not to be angry and aggressive when I tell her this, but it might have come out a bit rageful. (Hermonie, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.) I didn't bond with my parents or caregivers really and that has a big impact on relationships of all sorts growing up. (Then there's my hypothesis that I came from Hell or outer space.Sometimes those ideas don't seem too far-fetched.)
I tell her about one of the Barb dreams and one of the Ralph dreams. I share my thoughts on things, question the rim job which she finds hilarious. Hey, it is. I'm just thankful I never walked in on my grandmother giving some woman a rimmie in real life. I think that's one thing that I'd not be able to get over. I give her the background information on everything, how I formed my analysis of the dreams. She looks impressed. "You've obviously thought all this through. I don't know if there's anything that I can really add." This both flatters me and rubs me the wrong way. I'm the kind of bloke who needs feedback. She seems to sense this because she continues on. "It seems like you have had a lot of stress in your life, especially the past 6 months." I lean back in my seat and look at the dog. "Bit of an understatement. I was so stressed and now I have a different kind of responsibility shoved on my shoulders." "I think you need time to heal. The stresses of your conscious life are bleeding into the subconscious, coming out in dreams." Obvious. I tell her that I was so freaked out that I actually had my doctor look me over and give me the okay. Once I got the okay that I wasn't dying, I looked at the dream with different eyes. The meaning has shifted a bit; maybe they're not telling me to cross over, as in die, but to move on from all that's making me sick. I mean, I can't just walk away from depression, but I can make new changes. It's obvious to me, but the application of it is where I feel. I have a large dislike and fear of change. I don't like the loss of control. I feel so powerless in so many aspects of my life that not being able to control even the smallest things upset me. I don't mention that to her and maybe I should; maybe it's obvious. I've not been this open about my depression with a therapist before. I know she can see the desperation in me.
She asks me about my experience with death. I tell her what I did for my grandparents and a close friend. She looks horrified as I keep a calm face and even voice when I tell her how I cleaned up my best mate's body and the scene of the suicide. She doesn't expect what I tell her next. "Were you sad when she died? Were you angry?" "No, I was relieved." I breathe a sigh of relief. She looks confused. "What do you mean?" "I was happy that she killed herself. I knew about her struggles with mental health, her addictions she used to sooth the pain and her thoughts on death and suicide. I just wish she was the one who told me, that I didn't have to find out about it elsewhere. I didn't get a goodbye from her and that angers me. I know there was nothing I could do to stop it, you can't really stop anyone deadset on suicide, but I just wanted one more moment with her." I tell her about my own experiences with death, my own attempts and what happened when I technically died. "It was so peaceful. Just black, calmness. I didn't feel anything." "So there was no white light?" "That's a bunch of bullshit." We discuss a bit of theology and personal views, which I like. It's not often that I can discuss these things without someone getting butthurt; Melfi certainly did. Hermonie is more relaxed. I look forward to more of these kinds of little chinwags with her. "You see death as an escape. A relief." "Very much so. I don't look upon it with sadness but as a welcomed relief. Its a place where I don't hurt, where I'm free. When I'm under presser my mind will go straight to thoughts of suicide if I'm overly stressed. I think about the idea and I can almost calm down. I feel a drop in my blood pressure and my heart rate falls a bit." I breathe. "I think about it a lot, just because I find it calming. I'm not going to do anything right now, though. It's just nice to always have that option."
She looks at the clock. "We're done for today, just about. Let's schedule you another office visit. A week from today." I'm relieved that it's only a week. I barely made it through the two-week wait for this appointment. I have to tell her the other part. It's going to explode inside me and kill me if I don't. I hesitate for a minute. I know I'm leaving this last second and that I probably shouldn't, but just as I'm writing down my next appointment in my day planner I say, "I think I need medication help. I', not coping. I can't cope. I need help with it, maybe meds will help me." An image of Jessica and Kinderhead holding hands and skipping around singing "alalalala" with flower crowns fills my head. I know they're gonna lose their shit at this. "Well, with how it works here is that you need to attend three therapy sessions before we think about prescribing." My heart sinks. That's at least a month's worth of suffering. How am I expected to wait that long? "We just lost two people as well, so it might be a longer wait." I want to crawl up the walls. I get up the balls to ask about something I know I need but don't want only to be hit with this. "Fine, I'll call my GP and have her prescribe something short-term while I wait or something." Fuck. There's no guarantee that she'll do that; I mean she did before but that was really short-term and almost 2 years ago. I make a mental note to ring my GP tomorrow; I don't have the energy to do it today, despite it not being noon. I just want to go home and cry or sleep or both.
I couldn't touch on the Pugsley thing that was really bothering me. It was too hard to try and open up that can. Maybe I should have. At least I can next week; focus on next week. I actually used the words "So I have something to keep me here." Something to do. If I blurted out everything that I had going on inside of me right now, all of the emotion would have burst through her office door and I'd have been carted off to Looney Land. That's the worst thing about therapy, being scared that they're going to cart you off. I was a little more open than usual about my depression and thoughts on suicide, but it felt like I was walking a tightrope on a razor's edge. The little voice inside of me slammed the alarm button once or twice and I had to dial it back a little bit. It's the worst feeling. Worried you're going to be locked up and have your freedom stolen from you. Thankfully, she knows my thoughts on inpatient stays; we discussed that at length as well.
....
And my ride is not here. I have to wee so badly and my ride isn't here. What the fuck do I do? I want to panic, but I keep calm. I take a deep breath and think about what I can do. Take public transit? Ring the ride centre that was supposed to help me? Try and ring Kinderhead or someone? Public transit is out, I'm broke. Kinderhead is supposed to be busy and I don't want to see him anyway because there's a good chance he might bring Doofus-Burger along with him and him I definitely don't want to see. There is no way I can catch a break, is there?
I arrive a half hour early. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get a ride or have to suffer the 3 transfers on public transit, so I begged and pleaded and ended up here an hour early. I really shouldn't bitch. I'm lucky that I got here at all, even if I was annoyed, pinched and prodded the entire half hour car journey. Somehow it felt like a lot longer.
I was hoping that the 70's colours from two weeks ago were just in my head, but upon opening the door I'm greeted by the semi-familiar colours and the smell of old people. I don't know why it smells like old people. They've got a basket of artificial flours purchased on a makeshift coffee table. And people will still say that healthcare isn't in trouble? I mean, it's not exactly healthcare, but the office could look a little inviting. A sad wrack of pamphlets from what looks like the mid-1990's is purchased in the corner. Various colours, faces of dead people and wording were specifically written to trigger an emotional response stares at me. I'm not buying it. I take the same seat that I did two weeks ago. I miss Chubbs. I shouldn't miss him but I do. I want to punch his face into his brainstem and yet I want to cuddle him. Love is fucked up...So is what I'm hearing through the receptionist's window.
"You're less fertile with tonsils than you are without. Apparently, if you have this surgery and have your tonsils removed if can help you get pregnant." "Are you serious? What do tonsils have to do with pregnancy?" "I dunno, but aren't you looking to get pregnant?" "Yeah, but my tonsils?" Please, if there is a God, never let these two procreate. "I don't like being under, you know? Even for my wisdom teeth, I freaked out." Yes, can I second the idea that neither of them have children? I weep for the future. No need to wonder why I don't want to be in it. I could only imagine what Chubb would have to say about pregnancy and tonsils...then again he still has his and looks pregnant, so who knows.
I'm sat here alone for about 20 minutes before something shuffles in. He's about my size, wearing all grey which I approve of and then I notice his footwear. Fucking crocks. If that's not unsettling then I don't know what is. What kind of a grown man wears crocks when he doesn't have to? He sort of resembles Hagrid's brother, which is fitting because I'm going to see my therapist who looks like Hermonie. I'm just going to call her that. I think I mentioned that in my latest blog. My stomach twitches. I don't belong here. I want to vomit. I want to escape. Gwrap hums along to some song on his iPod while I struggle to concentrate on the blogs that I need to finish. A magazine catches my eye and I desire it. Just as I reach out to steal it, Jessica's head pops into my head. "Dan, that's naughty." Her high-pitched almost nasiley whine fills my head and I pull my hand away from the magazine. Goddamn, she's nagging even when she's miles away. My head hurts. I check the clock. 3 minutes late. What is with all these broads and not being on time? I have to be here on time but they seem to linger around, like a fart a funeral. I'm less than impressed.
.....
The cutest little dog pops out of the door and I have to resist the urge to scream. Hermonie appears behind the doggo welcoming me in. I follow her around the corridor and into her office. The pupper jumps up on the seat next to me. Must resist the urge to take doggo. (Not really, but kinda sorts, I love dogs.) She gives me a quick bit on how she likes to conduct therapy sessions, which is the most productive layout I've ever gotten and tells me to have at it. "How's your week been, Dan?" I'm both glad and impressed shes's remembered my name. Chubbs stays hidden in my bag. I'm not ready to have little Chubb burst forth. "I've just not been coping. It feels like an eternity." "Why don't you just focus on the things in the last two weeks that have been weighing on you?" If only she knew what that meant. I don't think we have enough time in this hour session to cover all that went on, not to mention all of the emotional highs and lows I rode through.
That seems like a fair enough request. Start with the here and now, things that are relevant for you, whatever they are. Practical advice from a therapist never heard this one before. She's already tonnes of points ahead of Melfi. I decide to open with a gem. "I'm seeing dead people." She looks over the desk at me. I can see the cogs in motion, her choosing her words carefully. Internally, I'm smirking. No, Dan, you can't jerk this woman off-technically you can get her off, but that's not why we're here today. You don't want to play mind games. "In my dreams." She looks relieved. "I'm having lucid dreams about dead people that I know. In the dreams I know they're dead, but they don't always seem to know." I pull up some of the dream blogs on my laptop. "I blogged about them, it was kinda helpful. You're on the blog you know!" "I saw!" She was flattered and I liked it. Melfi made no effort to get to know me through my work which is more telling than anything I could ever mention in her office. She scores more points with me by saying this and I hope that I'll have to admit less in her office. Talking to someone one on one about feelings, face to face more, is hard for me. She knows from the first session that I'm shut down. I know a few of the reasons, but I want her to work her magic on my noggin. I'm not going to supply all the answers, because if I were to do that, what would be the point of coming here?
"If you're comfortable with reading some of the blogs, then I'd like to hear it." My ego swells, but then I get all shy. My face burns hot. "I can..it's just difficult for me because as a child I had trouble with reading out loud and my classmates humiliated me." I feel rushed when I tell her this. I don't tell her that the reason I struggled was because I was shy and self-conscious, not because I had a learning problem. In hindsight, I probably should have mentioned that because when I mentioned that I had trouble seeing people as people and making emotional connections she asked me if I was on the spectrum. That fucking question! That really would have gotten my boxers in a knot if I was wearing any. Not that there's anything wrong with being on the spectrum, it's just that I'm not. I inform her that I've been tested before and that I'm not. I try not to be angry and aggressive when I tell her this, but it might have come out a bit rageful. (Hermonie, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.) I didn't bond with my parents or caregivers really and that has a big impact on relationships of all sorts growing up. (Then there's my hypothesis that I came from Hell or outer space.Sometimes those ideas don't seem too far-fetched.)
I tell her about one of the Barb dreams and one of the Ralph dreams. I share my thoughts on things, question the rim job which she finds hilarious. Hey, it is. I'm just thankful I never walked in on my grandmother giving some woman a rimmie in real life. I think that's one thing that I'd not be able to get over. I give her the background information on everything, how I formed my analysis of the dreams. She looks impressed. "You've obviously thought all this through. I don't know if there's anything that I can really add." This both flatters me and rubs me the wrong way. I'm the kind of bloke who needs feedback. She seems to sense this because she continues on. "It seems like you have had a lot of stress in your life, especially the past 6 months." I lean back in my seat and look at the dog. "Bit of an understatement. I was so stressed and now I have a different kind of responsibility shoved on my shoulders." "I think you need time to heal. The stresses of your conscious life are bleeding into the subconscious, coming out in dreams." Obvious. I tell her that I was so freaked out that I actually had my doctor look me over and give me the okay. Once I got the okay that I wasn't dying, I looked at the dream with different eyes. The meaning has shifted a bit; maybe they're not telling me to cross over, as in die, but to move on from all that's making me sick. I mean, I can't just walk away from depression, but I can make new changes. It's obvious to me, but the application of it is where I feel. I have a large dislike and fear of change. I don't like the loss of control. I feel so powerless in so many aspects of my life that not being able to control even the smallest things upset me. I don't mention that to her and maybe I should; maybe it's obvious. I've not been this open about my depression with a therapist before. I know she can see the desperation in me.
She asks me about my experience with death. I tell her what I did for my grandparents and a close friend. She looks horrified as I keep a calm face and even voice when I tell her how I cleaned up my best mate's body and the scene of the suicide. She doesn't expect what I tell her next. "Were you sad when she died? Were you angry?" "No, I was relieved." I breathe a sigh of relief. She looks confused. "What do you mean?" "I was happy that she killed herself. I knew about her struggles with mental health, her addictions she used to sooth the pain and her thoughts on death and suicide. I just wish she was the one who told me, that I didn't have to find out about it elsewhere. I didn't get a goodbye from her and that angers me. I know there was nothing I could do to stop it, you can't really stop anyone deadset on suicide, but I just wanted one more moment with her." I tell her about my own experiences with death, my own attempts and what happened when I technically died. "It was so peaceful. Just black, calmness. I didn't feel anything." "So there was no white light?" "That's a bunch of bullshit." We discuss a bit of theology and personal views, which I like. It's not often that I can discuss these things without someone getting butthurt; Melfi certainly did. Hermonie is more relaxed. I look forward to more of these kinds of little chinwags with her. "You see death as an escape. A relief." "Very much so. I don't look upon it with sadness but as a welcomed relief. Its a place where I don't hurt, where I'm free. When I'm under presser my mind will go straight to thoughts of suicide if I'm overly stressed. I think about the idea and I can almost calm down. I feel a drop in my blood pressure and my heart rate falls a bit." I breathe. "I think about it a lot, just because I find it calming. I'm not going to do anything right now, though. It's just nice to always have that option."
She looks at the clock. "We're done for today, just about. Let's schedule you another office visit. A week from today." I'm relieved that it's only a week. I barely made it through the two-week wait for this appointment. I have to tell her the other part. It's going to explode inside me and kill me if I don't. I hesitate for a minute. I know I'm leaving this last second and that I probably shouldn't, but just as I'm writing down my next appointment in my day planner I say, "I think I need medication help. I', not coping. I can't cope. I need help with it, maybe meds will help me." An image of Jessica and Kinderhead holding hands and skipping around singing "alalalala" with flower crowns fills my head. I know they're gonna lose their shit at this. "Well, with how it works here is that you need to attend three therapy sessions before we think about prescribing." My heart sinks. That's at least a month's worth of suffering. How am I expected to wait that long? "We just lost two people as well, so it might be a longer wait." I want to crawl up the walls. I get up the balls to ask about something I know I need but don't want only to be hit with this. "Fine, I'll call my GP and have her prescribe something short-term while I wait or something." Fuck. There's no guarantee that she'll do that; I mean she did before but that was really short-term and almost 2 years ago. I make a mental note to ring my GP tomorrow; I don't have the energy to do it today, despite it not being noon. I just want to go home and cry or sleep or both.
I couldn't touch on the Pugsley thing that was really bothering me. It was too hard to try and open up that can. Maybe I should have. At least I can next week; focus on next week. I actually used the words "So I have something to keep me here." Something to do. If I blurted out everything that I had going on inside of me right now, all of the emotion would have burst through her office door and I'd have been carted off to Looney Land. That's the worst thing about therapy, being scared that they're going to cart you off. I was a little more open than usual about my depression and thoughts on suicide, but it felt like I was walking a tightrope on a razor's edge. The little voice inside of me slammed the alarm button once or twice and I had to dial it back a little bit. It's the worst feeling. Worried you're going to be locked up and have your freedom stolen from you. Thankfully, she knows my thoughts on inpatient stays; we discussed that at length as well.
....
And my ride is not here. I have to wee so badly and my ride isn't here. What the fuck do I do? I want to panic, but I keep calm. I take a deep breath and think about what I can do. Take public transit? Ring the ride centre that was supposed to help me? Try and ring Kinderhead or someone? Public transit is out, I'm broke. Kinderhead is supposed to be busy and I don't want to see him anyway because there's a good chance he might bring Doofus-Burger along with him and him I definitely don't want to see. There is no way I can catch a break, is there?
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