Was I lying if I believed my story? If I lived it and felt it and lay awake at night agonising over it. I cried alone in my bed over the symptoms of that story. It's been me for the longest part of my life. Maybe it neevr happened, but soemthing in me needed to believe it had, and I believed it. Not just while I was sitting opposite her, but every waking moment of the past 2 decades. I was never cunning, or sly or laughing behind her back. I only lie about my story. I don't lie about the rest of my life. I'm honest. I've been called disgustingly honest.
How do I sit down in front of a new shrink and tell them I'm a pathological liar? But that I'll be honest with them. I believe I will, I believe I can. But when I'm ready. Do I let her talk to them first and fill them with the same doubt and mistrust and bitterness? Put me in a neatly labelled box, that says BEWARE on the outside. 'Don't believe a word she says'... So that they hate me before I even meet them? How do you get therapy about your therapy? I'm sick. I know I'm sick. Telling my story brought back compassion, sympathy, concern, care, love. But this. This awful truth is just shunned and shamed and mistrusted and rejected. How can I heal in that environment? It is living my very worst fears.
It was cathartic, the telling. Finally realising the truth. Terrified at how sick I must be to have even wanted such a story to be true. Like this huge weight lifted off me, and I was free. Naked, and free. But now. Now it is terrible. Now there is coldness and disbelief and even a tone of ridicule, sarcasm.
She sits and looks at my list of shrinks. 18 of them. Asks me when I'm going to stop this chain-smoking of shrinks, and in the same breath wants me to see a psychiatrist, another counsellor. I am so terrified of leaving on a such a bad note. She says I have until Christmas. She wants me to stop being distracted in therapy and talking about everyday things. Ouch. I struggle with everyday. I struggle with everyday things. For 34 years I have defended my virginity, even 5 and a half years into my marriage. When I finally resign myself, and am nothing short of traumatised by the experience, and lie in bed for a week and stare at the wall, that's just an everyday thing and it's distracting my therapy. I can't eat. I go days without a proper meal. I can't talk about that, it's just an everyday thing. My husband won't speak to me, communicates under coersion via email, swings from one wild idea to the next every other day, fights an addiction, has a personality disorder, is so depressed I wonder if he'll cath the train home, or just jump under it. He is incredibly hard to live with, but I can't talk about that, that's just everyday stuff.
So today I made sure I didn't talk about anything but what she wanted to talk about. No being distracted with my life. No help surviving everyday. My sole mission as far as she is concerned is sorting out what I'm going to do and who I'm going to see after her, so that she can discharge her ethical obligation, her duty of care and be rid of me, sooner rather than later. Do I survive in the meantime? Who cares? She doesn't.
I think I'll just let run the show and see if she notices I'm dying in the meantime. I just don't cope with this kind of indifference. All day today I fantasized about someone who knows me ringing her and telling her, I AM in denial, my story was true. I think about how my brother might do it. He could tell her he knows it happened, he was there, it happened to him too. I could pretend I have no idea my brother even rang her. I still would have no intention of going back to my story, but maybe there would be enough possibility to raise a glimmer of compassion, a whisper of doubt. It's not the story I want back, it's the concern, the attention, the warmth, the caring.
This hurts.
Isynia Mind
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