Resisting Trust

In my last post, "What a Difference a Day Makes", rather than feeling better, (I am not), I think despite feeling unwell I was able to have some insight into how my perception of other's motives might be skewed by my own beliefs about how I want and need to be supported when I am unwell.
I feel like I had an epiphany about other people. It seems obvious now that I have embraced the idea, but I am NOT the centre of the universe. Ha, ha...sort of:>( I often worry that I am narcissistic...can you be narcissistic if you think you might be? Hmmm).

Given that others deal with their depression in many different ways, it is probable, and even likely, that if they try to support me or you, or help us, they will do so in the way they understand to be helpful to them. This may or may not be the way in which you want to be supported or helped.

I know I try hard to approach friends difficulties the way I think they might need supporting, but I bet I get it completely wrong much of the time, because of my reference point. I need love and affection, nothing that indicates dismissiveness, or anger, and honest feedback.

I realize now that I block people from providing me with honest feedback because I so often feel hurt and criticized by what others perceive as honesty and even support. Difficulty trusting others is a key component to my reacting negatively i.e. fearfully, or hurt) to honest feedback.

I have great deal of difficulty trusting others, even those who consistently prove themselves trustworthy, (eg. Dr X, my boyfriend, friends etc.). I think I have made progress in this area, especially with Dr. X, but I falter all the time.

I remember just last week how intensely hurt I felt by a letter he had written to my Family Doctor (in Canada specialists need re-referrals from the referring physician every 6 mos...seems ridiculous when a psychiatrist has been seeing me this long). In the letter to request a re-refferal he said something like (paraphrase), "Aqua's mood cycles. She sees this component of her mood and is afraid to commit to regular activities". Honestly, I feel okay about what he wrote now because he and I talked about how I felt hurt by his comment.

At the time, after I left his office and read the letter, I was so hurt and angered by his comment. I felt so bad about myself and the way I was, that when I wrote my post, "Concrete and Practical Help" I could not even write about the situation that lead to my needing this help.

I felt like he was saying that I "could" commit to work etc., if only I would; that it was ME stopping myself from committing and not the fact that my mood disorder, my depression, was so intensely unpredictable and severe. It felt completely contrary to what I thought he had been telling me for years; that my mood disorder and its cycling affect my ability to maintain the momentum, motivation, mood, and energy to commit to regular scheduled activities. As I read the letter, all the trust and honesty Dr. X had worked so hard to maintain dissipated in front of me.

Obviously, not ALL the trust disappeared, because I was able to discuss my anger and hurt with him in my next appointment. The discussion helped me understand what his intentions had been. I understood more clearly. What really strikes me today, as I write this, is how, after years and years of building a trustful relationship, I can so suddenly feel hurt and distrustful.

As I read the letter to my physician I tried so hard to tell myself I was mistaken in my interpretation of the words. I tried so hard to believe and understand that Dr. X was so good to me, was so compassionate, honourable and trustworthy. I tried to remember how consistently supportive he has been all these years...but the worm of distrust, suspicion and paranoia kept digging itself into my brain.

...and I wonder why Dr. X and others might be apprehensive and not completely forthcoming about providing me with open and honest feedback. Given my pathological difficulties with trust, given my fear of being punished and plotted against, how can he be sure I will accept his feedback is thoughtful, caring and therapeutic?

Why do I resist trusting people so much?

What a Difference a Day Makes

I am okay. I will survive. I just so often wish I wouldn't. This is not what I thought my life would be like.

Last night my boyfriend called me and asked if could come over and help.

I have a friend coming in from England (actually she is moving back here) to stay with the next couple days. I had not cleaned my house in a long, long, long time. My floors were filthy, dishes literally ALL dirty, my kitchen a mess, bathroom disgustingly dirty...basically my whole place needed cleaning and I had 24 hours to do it.

Given I had months prior to this to clean and tidy my houset and hadn't been able to, things were not looking positive on the "clean the house" front. My boyfriend asked if he could come over and help me clean the house.

Can you believe that? He's a keeper...really!!!

When I was upset yesterday it was mostly because I was so depressed and needed so desperately to be heard. My friend E called me yesterday and really, really listened. We went for coffee this morning and she listened again. I hope she knows how much that means to me. I feel heard by her, and being heard makes me feel like others get me and can relate...and that I am not as freakish as I feel.

The people who commented on my last post heard me too. Thank you so much. I needed to be cared for and understood.

I know "I" (my b'friend) cares for me. He is so funny and cuddly, so passionate and charming, so thoughtful and kind in so many ways. Today I can see that maybe he approaches my depression and my reaching out the way he needs to be supported or cared for when he is depressed?

Maybe he needs people to tell him he is okay, or to tell him to try harder, or to tell him he can challenge his depression, to tell him it has no control over him? I suspect we each have different needs when it comes to feeling supported. Maybe he was supporting me the only way he knows how? Who knows.

The funny thing is that last night he said to me, "I am sorry I came across as a jesus freak last night" (apologies to anyone who has god in there live)...

I was a bit perplexed until he reminded me that, when he was trying to "help" me, he kept telling me to pray. When I said I didn't believe in god he kept saying sure you do, what is the first thing you do when something really bad happens? I had to laugh because he is right...the first thing I do is say, "Please god, don't let this be happening". Last night he told me that when he was really depressed, after he tried to commit suicide, he went to the mosque everyday and prayed to god.

We support, and show others support in a myriad of ways. I need to know that sometimes my depressive perspective skews my ability to accept feedback. I so often feel criticized when I am depressed. I need to think less about what is actually being said (from my perspective), recognize others have a different perspective than me, and think more about what the person who is speaking to me is like. If they are trustworthy, compassionate, honourable, loving and kind towards me the rest of the time, it is more than likely there ways of supporting me are intended to be that way as well.

Authority Figures

This is mostly a rant...with some relevance to my mental health:

I recently moved from a huge farm outside the city to a house in the city. As my husband and I have separated I needed to bring my dog with me. When I adopted my dog as a puppy last year I thought long and hard about the ease of accessibility to a place he could run. He is a boxer; a breed which requires a lot of exercise. The farm was a perfect place for him to run, and run and run in a safe environment...no cars, no people, no kids etc., just acres and acres of pure puppy joy.

I never expected my marriage to fail, and staying on the farm was always a longterm plan. Well of course that failed and here I am in a small home, in the city, surrounded by potentially dangerous dog situations: cars, lots of people everywhere, kids running up to the dog, all kinds of things to chase and a difficult environment for a young dog (1 year) to navigate without lots of structure, secure running areas and tons of training.

So I walk my dog 2-4 times a day on a leash; but he needs to run and play and get out some of his energy. So I tried taking him to the dog park. The last three times I did he was either hurt or became severely ill for days after the park with some kind of flu like illness. One of those times I had to take him to the emergency vet to rehydrate him. It cost $1000.oo; too much for my pocketbook.

I began taking him up to this big beautiful park by my place. There are tons of fields and two fenced in ball fields. I took him into the fenced area so he could run freely without getting hit by a car, or jumping up on some stranger, running towards and scaring some mother and child. He ran and ran, played, frolicked, jumped and I was able to do some great obedience training with him. That all ended Friday.

A city bylaw officer approached me in the field. He stood more than 6 feet tall, approached me with the swagger of an angry policeman and promptly told me I was in contravention of the animal bylaws and was to be charged $250.00 for having my dog off leash and $150.00 for having him in a city playing field.

Everything about the situation felt suddenly terrifying and traumatizing. I could feel intense fear, anger and a sense of being treated unjustly well up inside me. That awful feeling that I was going to cry sat in my chest, throat and on my lips overtook me. I felt that on top of all the fines and lecture and intimidation I was about to let him see how much he had hurt me. I felt sick.

He lectured me for about 10 minutes. All the while standing far too close to me and looming himself large over me. I felt like a bad kid. I felt like I did when my Dad was punishing me. I felt scared it would escalate; frightened and powerless.

Eventually he told me he would give me a warning this time, but as I walked away I began to sob. He scared the crap out of me. The fear of punishment, the belief that I would lose $400.00 from my already limited and over-run budget, the anger that I was trying to do the right thing and was to be punished for it anyways was too much. The bullying behaviour of the officer as he asked me why I was in the park and where I lived, and my inability to express my right to privacy, made me so angry at myself. As I walked away from him, head down, tail between my legs...I had a complete meltdown.

Homeless

I am very worried and anxious.

My husband came back in the house and told me to get out with the dog by the time he came back to the house. So as of now we are "homeless". While Skookum and I have no home anymore we did check into the best hotel in the city. They allow dogs...even have a hotel dog you can take for a walk...very cute.

Yesterday I began the process of trying to find a place to rent. Thank god I have a great friend , E, who has been helping me. She is amazingly supportive. I hope I can return the favour someday (hopefully not for these circumstances though)...no one should have to ever go through this.

I called both my sisters to let them know where I was. Both of them are extremely angry at me, with my one sister saying: "What did you expect" and "You could have thought of me and the kids. We really love (my husband). I feel very distraught and alone; so scared that I keep disappearing into my bubble. It isn't helped by the fact that the two people in the world that I need to help me think I'm a bitch.

It is hard to explain to anyone why I cannot remain married to my spouse. He is a good man in so many ways. He just is not good for me. I need someone who lets me in; someone who is caring towards me in a nurturing way, someone who allows me to be the creative, loving, accepting, caring, singing, painting, teaching being I am meant to be.

Two of my readers, Shock and Jcat, two incredibly supportive people towards me, have given me good advice in my previous post...to seek counselling, and tell Dr. X. I did tell Dr. X yesterday. He was so caring and supportive. There is a huge part of me that feels so ashamed of what I have done. I asked him if I had destroyed his perception of me, (because I feel I want so badly to be, and be seen as, a good person). What I have done to my husband is shameful. Dr X said no, but he had the saddest look on his face. I don't know if he felt sad that I would think that, or if he felt sad about what I had done. I think probably the former. I have a hard time believing anyone cares for me as much as he seems to. I don't feel I deserve so much compassion and lovingkindness. I always feel I am such a bad person. I guess what I have done pretty much reinforces that.

I called my husband yesterday and asked if he wanted to try counselling. He said, "no, counselling is out of the question because I have destroyed his trust in me, and that is the only thing that matters. He said he would never be able to forgive me, or trust me again. He also told me that his friends had been asking him for years why he stayed with me. He said he always loved me and believed in me. He told them I was a good person. He said ALL his friends had been trying to talk him into leaving me for years,

This really hurts me, as I felt they did not like me, but went into my relationships with them, believing I was just sick and paranoid...that despite my fears I was an outcast, they did like me as my husband told me over and over again.

To know I spent 18 years visiting with, and developing "friendships" with people who really abhorred me all this time is really distressing. It feels like abandonment. It feels like all my relationships except the ones with my personal friends have been completely false. It hurts me very very deeply.

anyways...I managed to get my own phone yesterday and called a few places, but no one accepted pets. So I will try again today. Please send positive energy my way. I really, really need it,

Disdain

I had two dreams the other day about Dr. X. rejecting me. The theme in both was the same, but I can only remember the details of one:

In the dream I have met a man and am enjoying his company. Soon I discover Dr. X is his good friend. After a few days the man dumps me while we are in some kind of theatre or concert venue. Dr. X is sitting beside this man when the man breaks up with me. As I am getting up to leave Dr. X gives me an intensely hurtful look of disgust and disdain; a look that betrays his hatred of me and his loathing for me.

The look sends me many messages, all awful. His look tells me I am not good enough. I am stupid. I am laughable. I sense there is a huge line drawn between him and people like me. I am not worth anything. I am worthless. I do not belong anywhere near "people like him". (successful, knowledgeable, intellectual people)

I woke up on the verge of tears.

I feel that way quite often. Like I am less of a human being than others. That I am bad and disdainful. That others are so much better than me. I sense a divide between people who are well, intelligent and successful, and myself, like I have failed at what is expected of me; that I have not met the standards for valuable people.

In my appointment Dr. X asked me if I recognized that this isn't the case..no I don't. I suspect it is the case but people only talk about it behind my back. That people I know laugh at me, think I am a bad person, think I am completely messed up, think things like if they weren't friends with my husband I would not be worth seeing.

I know some people feel like this, feel the divide between me and them. I see it when they talk with me. I felt it in my choir on Wednesday. Like I was trying too hard to fit in. At one point the two sisters next to me, who I thought liked me, started talking in sign language a few times when I made mistakes. I am certain they were making fun of me. That made me feel intensely self conscious, sad and lonely.

I feel like I will never be normal, never fit in, always be "outside the circle"; that circle where the people who matter , or people who count, exist.

Thank You

Dear Dr. X,

Thank you. I felt completely understood and immensely cared for in my session today. I really needed to experience belonging and connection. You really helped me feel less alone than I was /am feeling.

At one point when I was telling you about something intensely personal and highly embarrassing for me to admit out loud I saw your face change to sudden sadness....not about what I was talking about, but at my expression of fear that you might judge me, or feel I was a bad person for things I have done.

At that moment I knew you would never be judgemental of anything I have done, or might do; that I need not fear speaking any of my truths, past or present. The encouragement you gave me was incredible.

When I felt like an outsider you helped me recognize that often it is the outsiders who are talented and interesting beings. You encouraged me to embrace my "outsiderness" rather than try to fit in. You helped me become aware that often my being an outsider is a gift, a talent, it is (ironically) what draws others to me. That was a great lesson. You are a great mentor for me.

Thanks,
...aqua

What Do You Do: Are You Valuable?

A few days ago I went to the optometrist. A task I have been trying to get myself to do for more than a year now. Fortuitously, or not, my dog tried to eat my husband's glasses and I ended up at a glasses repair shop that had optometrists on site, so I booked an appointment and, because I have an intense sense of responsibility, despite not wanting to go when the time came to show up, I went and saw the optometrist anyways.

That is not the point of this post. Part of the point is WHY I do not want to see any health professionals outside my pdoc. It is because after the greetings, the first question out of their mouths is always, "are you healthy?"

My head always swirls with this question...my first thought always being, "I am desperately unhealthy if you include mental health as part of health. Then, "do they need to know about that?" Then, "well it would be lying to say I was healthy, should I lie?" Then, "but I don't want anyone to know I am WEAK" (argh... i.e. all that fear of discrimination, sense that I am doing this (my depression) to myself. It's my fault. If I wanted to change I would. I am such a loser for being like this." Then finally, "if I tell anyone they will think all these things about me too."

So I falter, and do not know how to answer the question. The Optometrist picks up on this and pushes from another direction, "Are you on any medications?" I feel so stressed out now, because as soon as I tell him my medications he will know I am a complete loser. I become hot, and I can feel my face become red. Embarrassment sets in. I list my medications, "Prozac, Tegretol, Valium, and Dexedrine". It is obvious to him now, that my hidden secret is out: I am mentally unstable. I feel little in the room; an "unperson".

Why? I do not feel this about anyone else with a mental illness. Just me. I don't get how I can be an advocate in so many ways for people with mental illnesses, yet feel as though I am less because of mine. I know that a huge part of it is that I feel devalued. I feel because I am not working I am incurring a huge debt to society. I am less worthy than others. I am, in fact, less than what people expect a person to be. These thoughts are drilled into my head. I can try to get rid of them. I can try to move beyond them by writing like I did in my last post, but they are always nagging me. They never go away.

Last night I thought about this picture. It is me, as a child, feeding the pigeons. I am certain that people found me valuable then. I am 100% sure that a little girl feeding the pigeons, a little girl doing what brought her joy, was a beautiful sight to others. I am sure no one was watching me and thinking, "That little girl should stop all this fun and enjoyment and get onto something more serious in her life". I am sure others would have seen me as valuable despite my not working.

What is it about children that makes the inherently valuable in a way that adults are not? Why would we never ask a child, "WHAT do you do?" Rather we might ask them, "What do you LIKE to do?

Why are adults so readily judged by the question, "what do you do? Why do we judge ourselves that way? Why am I obsessed with getting a job? Why can't I get that a job may follow a period of doing things I love to do, things that create meaning and purpose in my life. Why can't I get that a job is just one important aspect of life. Why can't I learn, or believe that a job CAN be simply a means to an end? Why can't I manage to give less power to the idea that a job is the what creates meaning and purpose for me?

Part of it is societal norms. Almost the first question out of a person's mouth when they first meet you is "What do you do?": As though with that information they will know everything they need to know about you.

When I was a banker I dreaded this question, because saying "I am a banker" elicits all kinds of stereotypes about who I am, and I was not those stereotypes, or if I was those stereotypes were the parts of me that I hated the most. The entire time I was a banker it was as though I was being the opposite of how I saw myself. The opposite of who I wanted to be, who I imagined I would grow into. I dread the question even more now that I am off work.

I have always fancied answering the question, "What do you do?" in another way: "I draw, and paint. I like to dance and listen to music. I love watching quirky crime drama's. I have a pretty good voice and I love to sing. I like the idea of tradition, but believe we need to envelope new ideas to. I write a blog. I absolutely love to read and learn. I volunteer at a mental health arts facility. I love to hang out with my sisters. I love my nieces and my sisters. I enjoy going out for breakfast with a friend, or going for long walks on the beach or in the woods. I love to garden, canoe and go camping. The problem is, for a long time, I have had trouble consistently doing and enjoying any of the things I "enjoy".

Of course, I love my sisters and nieces, but leaving home to visit them is frightening and exhausting. I am always afraid I won't be able to manage being away from home. I no longer garden, or hike, or camp, or canoe...I cannot muster the energy. I cannot seem to read. Yesterday I tried to read a book that I started a month ago. I knew I had read some of it before, but could not remember where I had read to so I began again. I remembered parts of chapter one and then nothing until I came to Chapter 6 (page 63)...I had read all the way to there before and remembered nothing except that I had read a part of chapter one. How is that possible? Anyways, my point being I don't even truly enjoy all the things I enjoy anymore.

I just don't get why, after years, and years, and years of therapy I can't accept my predicament; accept the life I have fallen into; accept that I am a different person and somehow learn that I am still as valuable as I was when I was that little girl feeding the birds.

Is Returning to Work an Essential Component of Wellness?

I have haven't slept well the since my last therapy appointment. Something in my session triggered some kind of potentially life changing thinking. I cannot sleep because I keep waking up thinking about how to change, accept and move on. When I wake it seems to take forever to fall back asleep. My mind has been racing with thoughts of how to make the leap, the decision, to change; how to create the will and motivation to change; and finally how to create change for myself despite my lingering and often paralyzing symptoms.

My appointment and meeting with a friend afterwards instilled a sense in me that I have been approaching my mental health "healing" and expectations of what is "well" from the wrong angle. I have been trying to get the old me back, but I suddenly recognize the old me, in many ways, is gone. My job now is not to recreate who I was, but to create a new me. Who I was led to my depression and anxiety. Who I was led to increasingly worsening Major Depressive Episodes)MDE's. Who I was is not a desirable goal to have. I need to be different than who I was in order to heal.

My entire life I expected that I would get meaning and purpose from my job, from working. I never wanted children, so that was not the way I sought meaning or purpose. It has always been through my job, or my schooling. School was extremely meaningful for me. Although I had two MDE's; one first year university and the other a few years later during second year university; both times the episodes were not triggered by lack 0f purpose/drive/interest/or meaning about school. Both were triggered by indecisiveness and fear of failing at something that mattered so much to me; although these may have been symptoms of an already "creeping in" of depression.

Once I came out of my depression in 2nd year I was happy for the next three years of school. I loved school. I loved the challenge. I had a sense of enjoying the moment, being IN the moment, feelings had not had for a long time. While going to school I worked part-time, but for the first time since I began work with babysitting when I was 12 years old, work became secondary to something more important to me. It was a means to and end, a means to do what I really liked to do; which was learn.

Until yesterday I did not realize what I have been doing for the last 7 years of depressive hell, and for the 11 years of my previous career. I have/had been trying to hang onto the job I had because, I thought it was the only way to create meaning and purpose in my life.

It never crossed my mind (even when I was doing the parts of the job that I hated) that my work was not the path to creating meaning and purpose. I just thought maybe I was not on the right work path. I even turned my favourite hobby (gardening) into work, because that is how I understood meaning could be found: through work.

As I left Dr. X's office I thought..."what if my volunteering really is work like he says?" Or what if even a more dramatic shift is taking place and work (volunteer or otherwise) is not my path to happiness?"

The former thought is a bit easier to accept; although I am loathe to concede Dr. X. may have been right all along. Only because I told him his insistence that "I was working" (i.e. volunteering) was really starting to annoy me. However, maybe I am working. Maybe it is important work. Maybe I am helping more people than I am taking from people? Maybe my volunteering balances out the disturbing thought that I am accepting disability money when so many others struggle more than me and deserve the help more than me.

The latter thought, "That maybe work is not my path to happiness" comes with all kinds of emotional baggage. Not the least of which is my fear of avoiding responsibilities, or feeling like I owe it to society to work, to not receive money for nothing; that awful feeling that I am a drag on my countrymen and women for being on disability, that I am shirking my duties and responsibilities; that I am doing something immoral or unethical in deciding work is not healthy for me. These thoughts are hard to manage.

Yesterday I just tried to take a Utilitarian approach to the idea of not working. I tried to imagine how my not working might be helpful, not only to myself, but to the greater good of society.

Perhaps, if I did not work, did not think of how to get working, did not try to find ways to work I would become well. Perhaps all that energy I spend negating and berating and hating myself for not working would go into constructive enterprises, painting, drawing etc.

Maybe, if I became well, Dr. X could help another person. Maybe, if I stopped worrying about work and focused on the things that bring meaning and purpose to my life: things like art, or music, or building and maintaining friendships, I would have more energy and the means to spread the joy to others who need more joy in there lives.

A tiny part of my mind is willing to concede that "work" as I define it is not healthy for me. Unfortunately, the largest part of my mind is preoccupied with what others will think, what is the right thing to do morally and ethically (for my community's greater good). It always appears that the point of wellness, (according to most mental and physical health providers), seems to be defined by an ability to return to work. If that is so, then how can the counter intuitive idea, that not working may help me become well and stay well, be correct?

Am I supposed to decide to not work? And if I decide that and become well, will a return to work make me unwell again? Am I forever unemployable, yet able to help others while helping myself? I cannot understand what it is I am supposed to be doing; what it is that will KEEP me well if I manage to get there?

Am I misunderstanding what Dr. X is trying to express to me?

Graciously Accepting Compliments

Yesterday near the end of my session Dr. X looked at me and explained he wanted to say something to me, but he wanted me to accept the compliment, and not reject it, or become self effacing about it. He really wanted me to try hard to accept and embrace what he was about to say. At this point I became extremely self-conscious and worried about what he was about to say.

At this moment, as I write, I am going to practice accepting praise at face value AND being proud of myself:

He began to express how much he like my blog. Not just that he went on in detail about what he like about it. I don't even remember what it was he said about it, because I was listening and it all seemed surreal. It seemed unlikely that someone like him, someone so important to me, someone so intelligent and well read would see so much value in what I write. I wish I could remember what he said, because after he said it I was flabbergasted. Yet, at the same time could not help but doubt the sincerity of such profoundly kind and elaborate praise.

I tried REALLY hard to just ACCEPT what he was saying, but I couldn't help let slip, "Are you serious? Do you really mean that?". He looked at me with a slight look of consternation that told me I had slipped up and done exactly what I had promised not to do. I was supposed to accept what he said, be proud of myself, and if I wanted to, say thank you.

I still find it hard to believe that he meant what he said, despite deep in my heart recognizing that he is not one to lie, or make things up. I wanted so badly for him to enjoy my writing, and it feels so important to me that he be interested in what I have to say, that it feels impossible that he would actually feel that way.

I was thinking yesterday why I would have such a reaction to praise about something I do, and something that means so much to me. I love writing in my blog. I find it intensely cathartic and challenging to write about the issues I do.

All I can think is that maybe I was projecting my Dad onto him. I try to please my father, to make him proud of me, yet no matter what I do I feel I never please him, or live up to what he wants, or expects, me to be. I am always a disappointment. My being depressed, and off work makes me disappoint him even more. I am trying hard to let that go, but I find the dynamic clings to me.

I think, because my blog is so important to me, I believe it became a contender for incurring disappointment in someone who matters to me. That is why I took in the compliment with a huge amount of doubt about its sincerity. My immediate thought was that the compliment was a gesture to placate me, to retrain me, to make me feel better during a therapy session where I was feeling so badly about myself.

My Dad called last night and asked me how my dog training was going. I told him about our first trip to the off-leash dog park, and how the despite all my hard work training my puppy to learn the words, "Come", "Sit", Heel" etc., the second my puppy saw another dog he was off like a flash and I may as well been a stranger. He tugged madly on the leash when I did manage to leash him, even though on the farm he happily walks with a loose leash at my side.

My Dad sounded so indignant. What the hell are you doing letting him off the leash? What did I tell you? That is when you need to use the long lead. He needs to be on a leash." Those words don't look too bad as I write them, but it was the tone in which they were delivered that said..."You are a fucking idiot, you never get anything right, I don't know why I even bother"

It is no wonder I get so angry with myself. I have internalized my father's dismay in who I have become, and who I was my whole life. I swear at myself; internally scream at myself, to, " just fucking get it together. Fucking change you idiot. You are such a loser. You don't get anything right. You just aren't doing the right things. You aren't trying hard enough. If you were you be better and back at work. You are disgusting."

Dr. X. explained that it is very difficult to get rid of those negative voices in my head, but I can bring more positive voices in to counter the negativity.

During the phone call I should have been thinking:

...Dad is just trying to help me. He does not realize that criticism from him cuts me to the bone. As a policeman, he spent his whole life barking commands and ordering people around. He does not understand how deliver a message softly. That's not his fault. He is a product of his life, just like me.

I need to not take his help as rejection. I need to accept what he is saying at face value. He is only trying to help me be a better dog owner, and he has the knowledge to do that.

Wow, I have worked really hard to teach my puppy manners and commands. He is however, still a puppy, and he has just recently been off the farm and into other environments. He becomes over stimulated and distracted by all the new things. I made a mistake. I have never had my own puppy before so I did not know better. I should have had him on a long lead. I know that now and will be better prepared the next time we go out. Dad was only trying to help me.

I feel like I will never learn these lessons. It is so painful to make the same mistakes over and over again. I would like to graciously accept Dr. X's compliments and believe he meant what he said. I feel flattered and very pleased with myself for all the effort I put into writing the things I do in my blog. Dr. X. you helped me feel even better about something I love to do. Thank you.

Hope Does Not Stick Like Glue

Maybe you noticed my mood fluctuates often, maybe you didn't. When I am in a mood state it feels like it will go on forever. It never does. I have glimpses and a teeny bit of insight that maybe I will crash when high, or feeling well. When low I really have a hard time seeing it will ever change.

This morning I replied to "S" that there is hope. A few ays ago I wrote about my new found discovery that hope exists. For some reason this afternoon that all seems to have dissipated.

I feel exhausted. I have a class to teach I am dreading going to. I have slept for the last two hours. Hoping the day would disappear.

Yesterday my Uncle (on my Dad's side) brought the last of my Grandma and Grandpa's friends still alive out to see me. They were my grandparents closest friends and I have fond memories of them. We had a very short, but good visit. It was good to see them, and nice of my Uncle to bring them to my city to see me.

However, as he left he rejected a hug I tried to give him, while U was saying thank you,to him. To top it off his last words to me were, "Don't work too hard".

He knows I am not working. In fact two weeks ago I sort of "came out" to my aunt and uncle about having panic and anxiety problems...though I never mentioned that was why I didn't work. The day before yesterday I told my cousin I had a mental illness and explained a bit more to her.

We had planned for my Cousins and Aunt and Uncle and my G'mas friends to get together, but only my uncle and G'ma's friends showed up. I think it is because they see me as a loser now. I believe my Uncle's comments were meant to hurt me. He is an intelligent man . There is no way he could not have understood that what he was saying was sarcastic, and that I would feel hurt by that.

So right now I feel like a loser for not working. I feel like he saw me as completely able to work; like he was testing my comments that I have a difficult time in big social gatherings, because I declined to go to my cousin's wedding due to my social anxiety.

Yesterday we were at the casino, but it isn't social gatherings where I don't have to interact with a large number of people I fear. It is gatherings where I hardly know anyone and am expected to be social. I'm usually fine with a small group, or somewhere with lots of people where there is no expectation I interact with anyone.

Anyways, maybe there is hope, but it waxes and wanes with both my mood state and my resiliency around rejection and authority figures. I am crying right now. I really hate this illness. I do not want to go to my class. I feal really stressed out about it. So "S" if my note this morning sounded too optimistic...right now I'm taking it back.

Confession

The Confession (Dicksee 1896)

I am not Catholic, but was brought up Anglican; which is close enough. The two churches' teachings are pretty similar except where it comes to divorce and birth control (and of course we have no Pope, the Queen is head of our church).

While I no longer practice my childhood religion I somehow feel deeply tied to the church and its rituals. It is very strange, because I do not even believe in God, but there is a peacefulness about walking into a church that is only rivalled when I step into Dr. X's office.

The other area the Anglican Church differs from the Catholic is the practice of confession. I have often wondered how freeing a regular, completely anonymous confession, the penance given afterwards, and the simple act of being told you are forgiven must be deeply satisfying and soul refreshing.

I suppose therapy is supposed to be like that, but there are always secrets and fears of what will happen if you open yourself up completely and 100% honestly to your therapist or psychiatrist. Fears about how the other will react, how their reaction will affect your relationship, how, even if there is no outward reaction, a seed of discontent, distrust, or even anger will be planted. The fear that some of those seeds will grow into plants, and the plants will give rise to more plants that negatively impact the therapeutic relationship.

I try extremely hard to allow myself to open up fully to Dr. X. in therapy. The day I met him I sensed immediately he was a person I could talk to. Which was strange as I had so many "man" issues I never really felt safe around men. I think I was extremely open with him during my first interview. Some people entice me to be open, but I am also a fairly open and participative person. A little too much so sometimes. By the time I met Dr. X. I had been in and out of therapy so many times that I understood I needed to let go of my fear of being judged and get everything out of my head in order to receive the help I needed.

There are things though, that I cannot seem to get out, cannot seem to say, to Dr. X, or on my blog, or to anyone. Probably important things, but shame, guilt and fear holds me back. I feel ashamed about things I do, or feel, and the words to explain these will simply not come out, no matter how hard I try to get them out. I think over and over that I should talk about these things, but it is as though I am physically mute, unable to speak about certain things I do or feel.

Often this fear of embarrassment, or abandonment, or punishment holds me back for months, or sometimes years, before I can finally tell him what I want to tell him. Every time I have done that he has reacted in an accepting and positive way. So why do I still find it hard to talk about some things?

I remember reading about this psychotherapeutic phenomenon in Irvin Yalom's, "Existential Psychotherapy". (A book that feels like it was written for me). He gave an example of a patient being terrified to talk about something, Eventually the patient managed to write it down on a piece of paper. When The Dr. read the note it said something like "I pick my nose". Hardly earth shattering, or shameful, yet to the patient, based both on his inability to say what he did, and the lengths to which he avoided saying what he did, it was both of these and more.

I believe my "secrets" are held private for a variety of reasons. One problem is some things I do or feel or sense seem so bizarre that I do not even understand why I do, feel or sense them. It is like someone completely different from the real me is rallying my thoughts and obsessively dragging me into doing things. I worry they will only be proof that I am a bad or extremely weird person. They are not even really earth shattering things, nothing illegal, but I am so afraid if I talk I will be rejected, or seen in a completely different light, no longer cared for, or thought to be crazier than I already am. I know I am being a bit cryptic, but I am trying to prepare myself to get things out of me and this is one small step towards really opening up completely.

Therapy is not like confession. It is not anonymous. The confessor knows their "confessee". The relationship is intensely important to the confessor. There is always a sense of potential instability or loss; a "contrived"genuineness (e.g. What therapist is going to say..."That is the absolute, most bizarre thing I have ever heard?...even if it was?); and an unsureness of the strength of the relationship, in part because while the therapist may love their job and like their patients, therapy is, after all, a financial transaction on the part of the therapist. The therapists are never (I don't think), or can never be as invested in therapy as the patient. The therapist has many patients, but the patient only one therapist.

For the patient there is more at risk in therapy than in confession. We, the patient and the therapist, are mere humans. Thetherapist can say everything is okay; that my thoughts and actions are normal, or symptomatic of my illness, but they may not really believe that to be the case. God, if he exists, is capable of forgiving anything. Pdocs and therapists are mere mortals. People whose feelings get hurt, who reflexively react to some information, who have fears and and joys and belief systems that may or may not conflict with their patients ideas. For me it is sometimes hardest to explain things to people who are most important to me.

Honesty in Therapy

Recently quite a few people have found my blog by googling "Honesty in therapy", or "How can I be honest with my therapist?", or variations of that theme. Today I will share some of my experiences with Dr. X and hopefully they will show you that being honest in therapy takes a huge amount of courage on the part of the patient, but also that the therapist or psychiatrist has to show they are worthy of that honesty in order to facilitate your being truly open with them.

I cannot think of a single instance where Dr. X. was judgemental about things I told him. I can think of many instances where I felt he ", "should be" or "would be" judging me. I can also think of many times where I can see now that I was "paranoid" he would judge me. In retrospect though, his refusal to label or judge my behaviour has allowed me to be honest in therapy.

Sometimes it has taken me a great deal of time to get to the point where I am able to share information. I weigh the odds of the information hurting me, or affecting Dr. X's relationship with me, or my relationship with him. I often spend weeks, sometimes much longer, worrying about opening up about something. Everytime I finally have opened up and been honest it has taken a huge weight off my shoulders.

Those who read my blog on a regular basis might notice that I use my blog to prepare myself to open up, to tell the truth, to Dr. X. A few times I have been intensely suicidal, lethal medications in my hand, and instead of choosing to take the medications I have written about how hard it is to express that kind of suicidality to Dr. X. Often it is because I am afraid of how he will react, or that he will take away my freedom. He never has, and the talking about it always de-escalates my suicidal feelings and reassures me I can trust him. (Note: I now trust that if Dr. X. did place me in the hospital against my will, he would be doing it for my own well being. I recognize that there may be times where I, or others, are not able to make those decisions for ourselves)

Sometimes if I absolutely cannot get the words out, if I simply cannot open up or tell Dr. X. the truth, I will print off what I wrote in my blog, or I type out the feelings and print them out. In my appointment I then hand the written version to him to read. As he reads the note I sometimes feel so ashamed of who I am and how I act, but I also recognize that he cannot help me if I do not let him know exactly what is going on.

At these times he usually reads the note and then is very silent, waiting for me to speak. Always these moments have been catalysts for more open conversation, and every single time they have promoted and reinforced a deeper sense of trust between myself and Dr. X.

I remember one time I waited 2 or 3 years to tell him about something I had done years prior. In retrospect, especially after telling him, I held so much guilt and fear inside me for such an unextrordinary piece of behaviour.

When I was in second year university I had a fairly short, but extremely severe Major Depressive Episodes(MDE). I would sit in my classes and all I could do is cry. I could not get the energy to shower for days at a time. Everyday I would go sit by the beach trying to get myself to kill myself by getting in the water and just swimming out to sea until I could swim no more.

In a couple of my classes nothing made any sense to me. It was as though I was sitting there, but the professors were talking some other language. I was having a particularily difficult time understanding lessons in one of my philosophy classes.

So, in desperation, believing there was a magical solution to my problem, I decided to look up the professor. I found out he lived near me. Believing it to be the magical answer to my not understanding his class, once or twice a day I would walk past his house. I believed that each time I walked past his house, all his knowledge would somehow magically transfer to me.

When I became well again, when my MDE ended, I felt so much shame about what I saw as a kind of "stalking" behaviour. I could not believe I would have done something so bizarre. I was afraid I was dangerous, and that if I told Dr. X. what I had done he would think I was too weird to be trusted. I was afraid he would be afraid of me. So I never told him or anyone I had done that.

A couple years into therapy I began to feel safer with Dr. X. and I forced that story out of my mouth and into one of our sessions. After listening carefully Dr. X. said (paraphrase), "What a beautiful story you have told me. It is wonderful that you were able to have such a magical belief in the way the world worked; beautiful that you were able to suspend reality and have such faith in a mystical type of transference of knowledge".

I was overwhelmed with relief and finally was able to talk to him about my fears that I had been stalking the professor, or that I might be capable of stalking another human being. I never wanted to SEE the professor, it was the act of passing his house that was so important. We talked about how I have OCD symptoms and and vivid imagination. He told me I was not stalking the professor, rather I was suspending reality and looking for a unique way to help myself in the class.

I recognize now that I may have been having some kind of psychotic delusion during that depression, but Dr. X never used those words. He gently helped me see the magical nature of my thoughts without judging me, or making my experience a bad one. It was simply a different experience than most people might have. He assured me he knew I was not dangerous, or a stalker, that I was a human being trying to understand her world.

Being honest with him then, and his positive reaction to what I saw as a frightening and terrible flaw in myself, set the stage for my feeling more and more free to express myself and be honest in therapy. Honesty in therapy takes guts and determination on the part of the patient. It also takes consistent compassion and kindness on the part of the therapist or psychiatrist with whom patients entrust their information. The therapeutic alliance that is created between an open, willing and brave patient and a welcoming, compassionate and consistent therapist is what facilitates honesty to take place in both directions. I feel blessed I have such a therapist.

Letting Go of the Past

In my session on Friday Dr. X. asked me what I was working on with my painting. Immediately, I felt intensely self conscious, fake, and that my art was trite and unworthy. I began to cry. I felt like a fraud with my art. I felt embarrassed by it, and by my ideas. Yet, while by myself painting, and when I look at my paintings alone, I feel an intense sense of accomplishment. I experience a sense that this is what I am supposed to be doing; the direction my life is meant to go in.

I think when I share something this valuable to me with Dr. X. I have a tendency to project my Dad onto him. Dr. X. instantaneously and magically BECOMES my father. I am unable to consciously recognize the person in front of me as the trustworthy, caring, interested and compassionate Dr. X. I cannot see him as the person who wants me to succeed. Dr. X. has left the building. My Dad is sitting in front of me.

I feel almost re-traumatized by the unconscious/subconscious fear that an extremely important person in my life will ridicule or dismiss my ideas. So when Dr. X asks me what I am doing with my art I become the child of an arrogant, egotistical, narcissistic tyrant. A Commander-in Chief who ordered me to listen. The all powerful authority figure who ridiculed, rejected and dismissed my ideas, my opinions and tried to slaughter my creative soul. The man who seemed almost obsessed with putting me in my place and proving he was right and I was wrong.

As a child I accepted he was right. It was me. I was wrong. I wasn't good, or smart, or good at anything. I was stupid, never paid attention and never listened. I believed this for so long that now, as an adult, I have forgotten how to be my own person without fearing I will make a mistake, or I won't be good enough, or I won't do well enough at anything I do, or I will embarrass myself, or my ideas really are stupid, or people will not like me. I will be rejected.

When I was a kid I wanted so badly to be involved with, and to please, my Dad. As a child I would wait , laying wide awake in bed; waiting to hear the late night news come on. I would sneak out and ask my Dad if I could watch it. We would sit on the couch together watching the news. This was the most important thing in the world to me. A sense of shared experience with my Dad. I would read the newspapers for the same reasons.

I did these things because I so desperately wanted to have something in common with my Dad. I wanted him to be proud of me, to be pleased with my seeking knowledge, to be able to talk with him about things. It never worked. If I tried to discuss something we watched together, or an article we both read it inevitably became an argument about why my perspectives were wrong and his were right.

I don't know why my Dad did this. I know he loved me, and I know he loves me, but he still does treats me and my ideas the same way. I love my Dad and I am trying really hard to let go of the past, but my past haunts me and slips unseen into so many areas of my life.

I forgive my Dad. I think he was probably treated that way by his parents. Also, being a policeman, and the "top down" military lifestyle life that type of job entails, would reinforce a sense of "authority" and "correctness" in anyone doing those kinds of jobs. He was a product of his environment. On top of that, there are no perfect manuals for being a good parent and the 60's and 70's child rearing mores were much different than today's. I can forgive, but my body and mind cannot forget.

I still react the same way to certain circumstances as I did when I was a child. I want to please all men, all authority figures, anyone who remotely has any control or authority over me no matter how tenuous the connection to their being an "authority figure" is. I am afraid of, and go out of my way to reconcile my opinions with, anyone who disagrees with me or anyone who has the potential to hurt me. I react with fear, terror, anxiety, and sometimes panic when someone, anyone, invades my personal space, or physically intimidates me or threatens me.

Obviously, given how I sometimes project my Dad onto my kind pdoc, I often react this way in situations that do not warrant such a reaction. This is when the therapeutic moments between myself and Dr. X are the most powerful. When the Dr. X, and a I are involved in a discussion or situation in my appointment that causes me to have such a severe reaction, I need to, and/or he needs to help me, recognize that these are the times to take note and to back up, examine my reaction and start again.

As he asked me about my art and I began to cry, I expressed how I was afraid my art was trite and unworthy. He spoke up and asked me to examine what I had said. As I sat there crying and feeling ashamed I was suddenly reminded of who was sitting in front of me. I remembered he is supportive, not dismissive. He is nurturing and interested in what I am doing, not judgemental. Almost instantaneously I began sharing my new ideas. I heard the excitement in my voice. I felt the joy of sharing something I cared about with someone who wanted to know. I felt one tiny step closer to letting go of my past and learning to be proud of my future.

A Conversation Between Me and My Dad

Me: Hi Dad, guess what? I bought a new car. (I've been driving and old 1986 minivan for years...love it, but it's time has come...well, did come years ago)

Dad: Hell, you never listened to your father's advice. Why in the hell would you buy a new car? (sort of joking I think)

Me: The same vehicles, but 3 years older, are only $3000.000 less and have no warranty, it made way more sense to buy new, plus I have never owned a new car. I just wanted a new car.

Dad: What else are you up to?

Me: (really excited)..oh, I applied for and got the volunteer position to teach 3 half day printmaking workshops to teens in the summer.

Dad: What kind of teens are they.

Me: Teens coming to the Art Clubhouse. Teen with mental illnesses.

Dad: Oh, you mean not real teens?

Me: (in my head...WTF?) (Out loud)They are REAL teens, what is that supposed to mean? They just have illnesses too.

Dad: Why the hell aren't you getting a real job, one that pays? Why the hell would you volunteer when you could be working for money.

Me: Well, I'm only volunteering to teach 3 hours a week and it's in a rehabilitative and supportive environment. I am trying to get better.

Dad: Well if you can volunteer to work you can get a real job.

Me: (wishing I'd never called, and wondering WHY I always contact him with the delusion that someday he will actually be proud of how hard I try, and wondering where I could get a job that allowed me to work just 3 hours a week and where I could feed myself and pay the rent) Dad, I am still not well. I cannot work right now. I am slowly trying to get better so I can work.

Dad: What you need is a real job. You have been doing that volunteer stuff for a long time now.

Me: (thinking yes...I've been managing a few hours a week for the last 1.5 years, but just recently began to feel safe doing that or even well enough to do that....and besides that, what I do in my volunteer work now is far more "real", much more meaningful and important than anything I have done work wise in my past). I am not ready to work yet Dad. I'm trying to get well and volunteering in this supportive environment is a safe way for me to work towards that.

Dad: Hrmfft. (Translation: you are so lame)

Me: (Hanging up from a call I initiated and entered feeling excited and proud of myself; and hanging up from the call feeling dejected, rejected, diminished, ashamed)

...bye Dad. I love you.

Dad: yup, bye. (click)

Opening Up Too Much

I just got back from my therapy session. I have mixed feelings about how it went and how much I opened myself up to Dr. X.

All day yesterday and last night I was so excited about the paintings I had done, so last night I really wanted to share my joy with Dr. X. This morning I awoke with a feeling of shame, or impending doom about my art and sharing it with my pdoc. I wrapped the paintings up and put them in my truck anyways, so I at least had the option to decide once I got to his office.

I've been trying to figure out why I felt ashamed, or feared embarrassment, or was afraid of (hidden) criticism, or had a sense of doom around sharing my pictures, when yesterday I was so really excited and happy to share them with everyone at the studio.

I think one reason is that what he thinks about me matters more to me than what others think about me. This is a strange dynamic. I think partly it has to do with him being a man. Maybe also as a man I project my father onto him. My father would be the only other person from whom I would fear criticism, or a negative reaction.

Dr. X. is probably the exact opposite of my father in terms of personality, temperament and reactions to me, but because he is in a position of power, because I (still) have difficulty trusting the authenticity of his reactions to me, because I sense a big part of his job, and therefore his relationship with me, is to judge me (to judge my wellness, my personality, my pathology, etc.), I feel fearful, that while outwardly he is accepting me, inwardly he just thinks I'm a complete loser. A failure as a human being.

There is absolutely nothing that Dr. X. has ever done that would lead me to believe he feels like this. He is consistently supportive, kind, caring and warm, but the feeling and fear still lurks in me for some reason. I try really hard to overcome that fear. Today I did bring my paintings in for him to see to with that goal in mind, but as I showed him I had a sinking feeling. I talked with him about it, but I couldn't really express why I was feeling that way. I still am having a hard time explaining it.

On top of sharing my paintings, I also shared my blog address with him. Part of me thinks it would be great if he could read what I blog about, because I seem to be able to be more open and articulate here because I have had a chance to digest how I feel.

The other part of me fears that I have left myself too open on this blog; that I am opening myself up for judgement. Giving him my blog address is in effect challenging that fear; understanding that I have left myself open and vulnerable to judgement, yet pushing myself to do that anyways. Maybe the more I allow that to happen, the more I will be able to overcome those fears.

Independence

I think lack of independence has, in many ways, led to my depression and kept it from going away. My husband is away and I am noticing that I am free in a way I have not allowed myself to be in a long time.

I am free to turn on the heat when I want to without being afraid he will criticize me (I pay the bill...so not sure why he cares either way). I am free to go anywhere, with anyone, without being afraid he will get mad at me. I am free to do the things I like to do without feeling guilty about doing them. These things are informing me that I allow my husband to control me in so many ways. I give up independence to keep our relationship comfortable, to avoid conflict. I don't like that I do this.

I feel like I give away bits of myself by giving up my independence. I notice that whenever he has gone away I feel a sense of freedom that I do not feel when he is home. Alternately, my strong sense of needing my independence can be a big problem. I push people away because I feel suffocated, or feel like I need my space. I think this is a defense mechanism. I push them away before they get the chance to push me away.

I struggle so much with my fear of being rejected by others. I believe this stems from two things in my life: As a child and teenager I had to move with my family to different parts of the country every 2-3 years. Each time I moved I had to make new friends. I think I gave up some of my independence and became who people needed me to be in order to make and meet new friends.

Also, I had a father who dismissed my ideas all the time. He was the most important male role model in my life. His dismissiveness was heartbreaking as all I wanted to do was please him. I am 42 and he still dismisses me and I still try to please him. It still hurts me every time he rejects me. I do not know how to become independent in this relationship, other than avoid him, which is what I end up doing.

I have replaced my father with a husband who does the same thing. It is strange, but the more I feel dismissed, the more I struggle to be close to the person dismissing me. This affects my independence. I do not feel safe being independent because I fear I will be rejected.