Last week’s individual session with Paul was a little strange. It felt a bit chaotic. Not surprising since that was exactly how my mind had been feeling.
I arrived at therapy without the usual well-rehearsed agenda. I’ve been trying to do this on recent appointments. The spontaneity is largely successful, but last week was different. I didn’t know what to talk about and the paranoia had me gazing at the floor more than usual.
We talked a bit about the bullying. This admission was huge at our last session, but I couldn’t be bothered going into it too much. I’ve always wondered why I was a chronic people-pleaser; why I would go out my way to ensure everyone would like rather than persecute and how I would be wracked with guilt for letting anyone down.
I stumbled around for something more to talk about. Before I knew it, we were back to the inherently bad relationship I have with my parents. In retrospect, I may well be offering snippets of information that attempts to justify why I avoid them to such an extent. Perhaps I attempt to talk my way out of guilt.
When I was getting ready to leave, something happened. At first, I didn’t understand, so left without saying another word. As each day past, the frustration only multiplied by this weird inability to connect with the same past that once caused so much emotional turmoil.
Last night I wrote for a few hours about all the reasons why the gap between my parents and I only widened with the years. The memories were the same but the anger and guilt just were not there. Even odder, is when I realised today that the associated rumination seems to have dissolved.
Maybe I should be jumping for joy, finally able to feel some inner peace from doing all the hard work in therapy. Instead, I feel suspicious and wonder if there are two potential scenario’s at play. Either there’s been a total shift in perspective or I’m experiencing a dissociation episode. I have no idea.