Tuesday's Therapy Ramble

I have so much to say that I know I will not be able to say it all. I am barely able to get my head around all of it, so maybe just writing something here will help. For starters, the agoraphobia really seems to have been helpfully impacted by the therapy with New Guy. Even though I have been having problems for the last several days, that isn't one of them. Yeah, I've been anxious, but it seems that it no longer has the power to keep me from procrastinating going out to do something and having to go out does not seem to increase my dread so much as it has before. I've yet to blog the in-depth details of what changed this, but maybe soon. For now, at least I finally understand it for myself (and thankfully, it's not because New Guy has become the mother - he is just himself, which is actually quite helpful and very nice).

My problem right now is nightmares. They started several days before my daughter's birthday party and have been constant for the last few days. Tuesday found me waking up screaming. Before that though, when a really upsetting one happened on Monday, I was so trashed by it that I had to email it to New Guy just to get it off me without having to dissociate it. The dirtball appeared in that one. Dirtball The Pedophile who raped me and hurt my kid and I would still like to choke that worthless bastard to death. Sometimes I still wish I had killed him that day in the basement instead of just beating the fuck out of him and calling the police. I had that motherfucker in a headlock in Monday's dream, but I didn't have my phone and I couldn't get anyone to listen to me and call the police. Also disturbing, in my dream I spotted the dirtball as he was walking out of New Guy's office. And now, after Tuesday evening's appointment, I understand more about why I dreamed that.

New Guy is very interested in what the hypochondria is a metaphor of. We have arrived at the conclusion that it is a metaphor for the body not being safe from harm and that it is in fact a form of dissociation. Then he asked me how old I was when it started. And then the shit hit the fan. I was in fourth grade, just like my precious little daughter whose birthday party fucked up my head. And yes, I remembered what happened right before the hypochondria first got its hooks into me. I've never been able to place it in the timeline before, but now I have. Right before I got the hypochondria that I've suffered with all this time, the pedo school psychologist took me and two other girls off the school grounds without authorization. Yes, folks, we took a (non)therapeutic trip to the edge of the woods! Thankfully, he didn't get to actually molest me, but he triggered earlier stuff and I felt even less safe than I did before his disgusting attempt. This was in fourth grade (my little daughter is in fourth grade) near the beginning of the school year (the time of my birthday). As if I didn't have enough other reasons - no fucking wonder I am so afraid of therapy and therapists! And that is how a pedo came to walk out of my therapist's office in my dream. Because therapist's offices are not safe places. There might be a pedo in there. (I swear to god if I ever REALLY see the dirtball again - several people better rush to hold me down or the motherfucker might end up dead and there won't be jack shit I can do about it. Someone had better hold me down because Rambo can't attend prison without me.)

I have no idea where my fourth grade teacher is right now. I don't even know if she's still alive. But I love her for busting that sick fucker and stopping him from hurting me worse than I had already been hurt. I don't think I could have sustained any more damage just then. What I already had was massive enough and I was barely getting by. Mrs. Cohrs, I don't know where you are, and I'm sorry that the flowers I picked for you on the playground triggered your allergies, but I LOVE YOU. You, too, Ms. Kinney. I had so little in the area of positives and the two of you make up a big chunk of it. For all I know, your actions are part of the reason I was able to stay alive. I loved you then and I love you now.

You know who else I love? New Guy. He did not change the subject or tell me to focus on the present moment when the shit hit the fan. He just stayed there and told me that it's okay. He knew the panic would pass. And he knows I'm fundamentally okay. Afterward, instead of evading, he asked me if I felt that I could continue on topic. I think he trusts me and doesn't think I'm a wingnut.

In light of the above story (and various other shit like my mother, the insane psychologist), can anyone guess why I first sought out Old Guy, who lives very, very far away and could only offer phone sessions? Yes, that's right! So I could be safe from the physical threat posed by scary psychologists who might be crazy! A person should be able to have plenty of distance from something like that, right? It's a sad fucking day when the designated crazy person has to act in this way, but there you have it.