More than any other day, I did not want to be there. It felt pointless. The twenty-four hours leading up to therapy with Paul, my mood had started to dip. Sitting in his office only made me feel worse. Our connection was not the same. This was the last session before our two-week Christmas break. Is this what was bothering me?
It seemed safer to reflect on all the positive changes in recent weeks rather than begin to unravel anything new. I imagine Paul could sense the apathy.
Last week’s therapy was about feeling rejection. I was tittering on the edge between dissociation and feeling the dark, isolating loneliness that rejection invoked in childhood. It didn’t feel safe to visit that place just before the Christmas break
Paul asked, “What would that feel like… if something significant came up just as we were finishing for a two-week break?”
I didn’t know what to say. The part of my brain responsible for processing that question seemed to have had a lobotomy. Mr Paranoia stared at the familiar stain on the floor.
Paul came in from a different angle, “How do you feel about the break?”
“At first I was unsure, but now I’m okay about it,” I answered, honestly, “I need a break and the time to reflect might help to catch my breath.”
Our session slowly dragged by, leaving me feeling thoroughly depressed. Safely locked inside my car, I was free to chat with my favourite buddy, Hindsight. Hindsight is wonderful. She is always there to help forge a distance between reflecting and feeling the emotions.
I started to feel uneasy about the Christmas break. I wondered if Paul had been expecting me to say I was feeling abandoned or rejected, which is a common symptom of BPD.
Hindsight and I looked to see if abandonment and rejection were there, but we couldn’t see either. However, while digging around, we came across an underlying deep sense of loss. But, where is the logic in that?
I haven’t lost anything. We’re only on a break. I can cope perfectly well without them. Nevertheless, loss prevails.
Hindsight and I have no idea what any of this means. Yet, something about it brings back memories of childhood and the disappointments experienced around Christmas time.
Later that evening, I chuckled when I caught my inner child sitting with a calendar, counting the days until the next therapy session. I heard him whisper, “Twenty-flippin-days… now that’s just taken the piss…”