Couldn’t possibly find five hundred words. Could only watch more videos and lay still, chained and rattled by the idea that this day should be a certain way – meaning the way all days have always been when we are in the midst of a much more complicated discussion.
I told my mother the thing I meant yesterday to tell you, blog. That the therapist essentially said that the therapeutic model the insurance is based on is one of obvious improvement. Of issues being resolved, cases being corrected, things being handled and bettered. It is not based on patients finding comfort in spending an hour venting and re-situated their brains on the challenges in their life. There needs, in all cases, but particularly in mine where the issue is one regarding pushing forward, to be progress.
Or I could lie and press the buttons on the diagnostic box and say that no, never in the past two weeks have I felt overwhelmed and found social situations difficult to deal with. Not once. And that would mean that, at least in terms of the box and the data attached to my name in the records, that I am improving which would lead to ending therapy because well people don’t need to be coached back to wellness. Or we can set up a short series of four or five sessions and try and knock some of these problems out and end the therapy. This seems intense and not something I know how to do. I immediately doubt this is possible when she says it. Or I can still go, once a month, and do this thing of pressing the buttons on the box that say that I still struggle, which will be utterly true. Because it’s either sometimes or not at all in the registry of the box, and just a little bit or less and less is a therapeutic addendum. A note that matters in the specific, not in the aggregate – it matters in my relationship with my therapist but not at all to the materials her bosses see when they are considering how well she is doing at fixing people. So I get that she sees my holding pattern as an all around liability to all of us.
So as I took this in, I felt a bit threatened. Like I was boring her. Like it was either get well, or…not get out…but languish. This was exactly my rationale for ending therapy the last time. I was just going there to vent my spleen, to be mothered, to be supported and get the sour patches repaired in my brain. It was a short-term solution because I wasn’t working on the problems. We just mopped up the milk. So, the threatened feeling passed, and I saw the opportunity she was presenting. The Faithful Light nodded through me and said, no, we need to accomplish something here. I said, how do we do this? She said SMART goals. I refuse to second-guess, to roll my eyes, to do anything but just follow through.
I told my mother this over dinner. There was no comment. I wanted to let this cause me doubt and upset and to feel ever more alone in this process towards a life unchained from fear, but I realized how much I am her daughter. How she, despite having never phrased it as I would, is off in her head, thinking her thoughts as arbitrarily and autonomously as any sonderous soul in the universe. That my demanding her meet my wavelength and see my troubles in the first instant I declaim them is as likely as pigs flying over the mountaintops and dancing down 36.
I only want to show myself.