laila
14 December 2007 @ 11:19 pm
5/16. It's All On Paper.  
And it looks so much more intimidating there.

Part of my sessions involve my therapist making some kind of grand summary of all the issues that she has dug out of me during the course of the first few meetings, and then reading it out to me. I have a copy with me right now in the form of a letter. I knew this was coming and I have been quietly dreading it.

Well. I have not so much been dreading the letter itself as dreading my reaction to it. Hi, I'm going to hand you a piece of paper explaining all the ways you have been sabotaging yourself out of being even vaguely happy for most of your life. Huh. It's not exactly a normal state of affairs or one I suspected I would be able to react to with equanimity, especially not given as I'm a sensitive bunny even when I'm not depressed enough to need my head poked for an hour a week by a registered psychotherapist.

I took it rather better than I thought I would.

I actually agree with most of it. Still, there's something rather unsettling about seeing everything set down like that. It makes the problem look so much more real and I, for most of my life, have been sitting here trying to pretend it'll all go away if I don't think about it. Negating the problem more for my parents' sake than anything else. They think I'm making a fuss about nothing, ergo I am making a fuss about nothing. I don't have mental health problems and the only reason I think I do is so I can use them as a get-out clause.

That's my parents' mindset, and I've internalized that just, it seems, as I've internalized a Hell of a lot of other things they've been telling me down through the years. See it all on paper and I'm no longer even surprised I don't feel like a functional adult a good seventy-five percent of the time.

I try not to think of myself as mentally ill - I do my damnedst not to look it, when I go out. The fact remains, though, that I am. And just coming to terms with that is a bit of a facer.


In happier news, I have three notebook pages' worth of Youji x Ken Christmas Fic and, given that the fic itself is claiming it wants to be pretty short, it's all beginning to look vaguely doable.

It is odd, though, how much groundwork a little piece of fluff like this is requiring. So far I've had to look up Christmas as it is celebrated in Japan - and getting quite hellishly confused as a result of it as all the webpages I go to seem to be saying slightly different things - as well as what exactly a Japanese Christmas Cake looks like, which look absolutely delicious and nothing like the ones we suffer through in this neck of the woods, and the timing of Christmas Eve church services.

Apparently the Japanese can buy each other Christmas presents if they want to. The question about Weiss is, would they want to?

Good job I don't have to answer this question, as [livejournal.com profile] orthent's kindly-provided plotbunny, from which I am getting my fic, doesn't have a lot to do with Christmas Day. Thankfully.
 
 
Current Music: sprouting - nobuo uematsu
Current Mood: a bit startled
 
 
laila
08 November 2007 @ 09:08 pm
Okay, Go Figure This.  
I've been wanting to have therapy for months.

I spent most of last weekend panicking because it looked like I wasn't going to be able to have therapy, or was going to have to wait another eight months to go through the waiting list again.

I went, in fact, as far as to leave hysterical messages on an answerphone relating to my desperate need for therapy and how very badly I wanted to ensure that I managed to get it, regardless of what the postal service might have had to say on the matter.

I called someone up again on Monday to ensure that the problem was going to be sorted, and was relieved to be told that it had.

(Incidentally, I got the letter about the first appointment - the ome I missed due to my not knowing I had actually been given it - on Tuesday. Yes, thank you very much for telling me I have an appointment for therapy on the 26th October, too bad I got the letter several weeks later and have already rearranged the appointment. God damn you, postal service. Next time time your strikes so they don't interfere with my finally getting through eight-month NHS waiting lists.)

I've spent the last few days glad that the wait is finally over and that I might actually be able to get my head some degree of sorted out.

I've even gone so far as to look up the type of therapy I'm going to have on Google, so that I have some idea of what I can expect to happen and don;t look like a complete moron when I actually get into the session.

However. It's now the night before the session and I'm really not sure I want to do this at all. I'm wondering if perhaps I would be better off skipping it and catch up on my sleep, something I appear to be in constant need of doing. What if they can't help me, or I don't want to help myself? What if they think I'm whiny? What if I don't like my therapist?

Part of me, a very large part, just wants to hide under the bed.

So go figure that.


Randomly, I am getting so sick of my landlady's son wandering round in his underwear of an evening that I'm beginning to consider wandering around in mine, in the hope that it'll get it home to him that NOBODY ELSE WANTS TO SEE HIS SHREDDIES. Maybe the sight of my substandard body will clue him into the fact that his own mostly naked form is not even remotely visually appealing either? Desperate times, et cetera...
 
 
Current Music: ways and means - snow patrol
Current Mood: intimidated
 
 
laila
05 November 2007 @ 01:19 pm
On Correspondence, Continued.  
One discreet futz with the modem later and I have internets! Ha!

So. A couple of brief explanatory phone calls made at nine this morning, fielded by a very nice receptionist who was no doubt terrified she was dealing with a maniac, and I have managed to go from this:

Dear [[livejournal.com profile] quietladybirman's powerword],

I am sorry that you were unable to attend your appointment for Cognitive Analytic Therapy on Friday, 26 October 2007 at 2pm.

I am happy to offer you another appointment if you still wish to receive therapy. Could you please let me know on the above telephone number as soon as possible if you wish to be seen? If I don't hear from you by Friday, the 02 November 2007 I will assume that you no longer require therapy and I will discharge you from the psychotherapy department.
(Which letter, for those of you spared from Saturday's hysterical and not entirely sane-sounding babble - trust me, guys, you didn't miss anything I'd care to admit to in mixed company - was received on Saturday, 3 November. Namely one day after the date I was supposed to get back in contact with St Thomas' hospital about rescheduling a psychotherapy session I didn't even know I'd been given, let alone missed, leading to a weekend full of paranoid fears and fancies...)

to something which looks rather more like this:

Dear [[livejournal.com profile] quietladybirman's powerword],

Further to our telephone conversations this morning, I confirm that your psychotherapy sessions will begin with [name of therapist], at 10.00 am this Friday, the 9th November.

The address of the Department is:

Psychotherapy Department
Adamson Centre
Lower Ground Floor
Block D, South Wing
St Thomas' Hospital
London SE1

We look forward to seeing you on Friday.
I guess sometimes leaving tearful messages on people's answerphones does work after all, though God knows it's not a strategy I resorted to intentionally. It just kind of happened.

The plan, it being Saturday, was to phone the department with the intention of leaving a reasoned explanation of the situation and a calm request that things be Looked Into. For some reason this turned into me crying at the answerphone and talking disjointedly about how I still needed help and I didn't know I had been given an appointment and please don't discharge me and my sick head. In fact, I had to call back once I calmed down due to the sure knowledge that the first message I left had made absolutely no fucking sense.

Guess I definitely do still require therapy if I can't handle something as easily rectified as that without auditioning for a nervous breakdown.

Really, I like to think my reaction was understandable. I've been waiting for a letter about this psychotherapy appointment for the last three months. Technically, if you include the fact I knew there was a six-month waiting list, I've been waiting twice as long as that again. To then be kicked off the list after missing an appointment I didn't know I was given would have been too much.

The irony of this happening a couple of days after my complaining that nothing nice usually comes in the mail and all I normally get are bank statements and the occasional doctor's letter bitching about missed appointments, is not lost on me. Though I was thinking about appointments for smear tests which are, for various reasons, utterly pointless for a sweet little nun like me.

(Yeah, a sex life would be nice.)

ANYWAY. I have an appointment with a psychotherapist on Friday. We'll see what happens. If nothing else, I'll call it research.
 
 
Current Music: here it goes again - ok go
Current Mood: thankful