Therapy. Therapy is what makes you better, right? BPD and C-PTSD and the need to ‘recover’ means I have to go through different types of therapy.
I’m finding this problematic on three levels.
Firstly, the whole concept of needing therapy to fix the person that I am or was or whatever because I am no longer me, but a living breathing, terrifying illness and that in itself is just so difficult to accept and deal with.
You know, I have never for as long as I can remember had the desire to live. I have lived because staying alive is an expectation. I just exist because I am here. I have been able to complete this task because I have had people to take care of. Taking care of others has always been my purpose. My reason to continue. I don’t have anybody anymore. There’s no-one to nurture.
Now there is only me. Me is no longer me; me is an illness – well two and not exactly easy fixes either.
This is a problem because I have always been of the view that if you have a severe illness, well that’s what God or nature intended. So don’t waste other people’s time and/or money to fight it, have surgery or treatment, etc. If you’re going to die, then just blooming well do it. Don’t lean on other people to help you out if you’re not going to make it. Make plans for your family, your pets and your property. Don’t prolong their pain for what is inevitable. That’s selfish. Accept and die.
So I have always been waiting to die. I’ve been waiting for my chance to shuffle off this mortal coil for a long time. I’ve had moments of hope; short periods when I have wanted to but they are always tied to other people.
Now I am not allowed to. Family require that I survive so I have promised I will not harm or kill myself. But I still hope that something falls off the roof, or that my heart will stop or that I will get an aggressive form of cancer and can just drug up and pass peacefully away.
If I am to live, I need treatment. Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy.
I am not a very good patient because I do not want to be a patient.
This leads me to the second problem. Because I don’t want to be fixed because it’s opposite to my beliefs, I am not doing what I am supposed to do. I don’t believe in a future for me, so why work toward one? Then I feel guilty. Guilty about being alive; guilty about taking up people’s time; guilty because I am not ‘doing my homework’; guilty because I am not trying to get better; guilty for going to therapy at tax payer’s expense, etc.
Thirdly, I really, really like one of my doc’s. (I have a GP/Counsellor and a psychologist). I like them both, but I have got to know D1 better and just think she’s a fantastic person. Yeah, I know this is a common patient/therapist thing, but I think she’s incredible and would love to be friends with her – not a patient.
The problem here is because I like her and I know she genuinely cares about her patients, I don’t want to worry her, so I am no longer entirely open with her. I don’t want to disturb or upset her. She’s too lovely for that. I feel guilty about bothering her; guilty about taking up her time when there are so many other people she can help.
D2 is a nice person too, but I haven’t spent much time with her. She has stopped taking on new clients as she has a few hard-core patients like me. She says she needs to free up time for me. I feel guilty about that too.
It’s why I won’t call any of the helplines when I’m feeling down. I would feel bad about taking time from someone who may need help more than me.
There are so many people out there who need help – why should professionals spend time trying to fix me, when I am what I am and cannot see anything within myself worth the time and effort?
The things I have to do, the places in my head I have to go to … I just don’t like it. I don’t want to go there. I don’t wish to have a treatment that makes me go so far back into me.
I don’t like being a little girl again. I don’t want to have to go through the whole growing up process again.
I don’t like my homework.
I like drawing pictures but not pictures of me. Not pictures of me being little. Not pictures of little me and what I wanted to be.
I don’t like going back there.
I remember how doctors are scary. I remember how they always locked mum up.
I don’t want to be locked up.
I don’t want to draw pictures in case the pictures show reasons that I must be locked up.
I don’t like therapy.
Therapy makes me feel more. I don’t want to feel. Feeling so much all the time is horrible.
I want therapy to teach me how not to feel; how never to feel; how to revert to my previous capable, robotic state.
I need to work to live, and I’m lucky if I can work 8-15 hours in a week. The rest of the time I’m just a heap, and everything just piles up around me.
If they could guarantee a treatment, even if it meant frying my brain to the point I couldn’t remember anyone or anything; could wake up on some remote island with solar, water, a veggie patch and my animals; not need human contact; never feel emotion, nor have memories, I would take it.
Anything to un-love; un-care; un-fear; un-feel … If I have to exist, please let me exist without emotion.
Zap me and drop me somewhere.
Somewhere far away from me.