“Maybe being alone and not caring is better than to risk getting hurt,” was the theory I posed to D, the hospital psychologist. He calls this avoidance. I call it protecting myself. “But you want to have relationships,” he pointed out, referring to the list I had written while in hospital naming what the ideal would be if I didn’t have my problems. I shrugged at him. Maybe I’ve changed my mind.
I didn’t want to see D today. Not when I’d taken a break for about a month and it almost felt like starting all over again with someone new. Not after the whole fiasco with Dr T which has put me off mental health professionals altogether. I was fighting the urge to burst into tears or get up and walk out the door during the whole session. Fortunately I did neither. Not least because then I may have to explain why, and I wanted to avoid getting into the whole issue with Dr T. Not that staying there was all that much better. I didn’t quite have the courage to tell him I don’t want to do therapy any more. And so I glanced around the room in silence, hoping he’d get the hint. It’s worked before. It’s been at about this point that I had ceased with my previous two psychologists, when we’d run out of things to talk about.
I can’t help judging my current situation based on previous experiences. And my previous experiences have hammered into my head that therapy won’t work, we’re going to hit a brick wall, and it’s going to end by us parting ways not on a good note. I’m even less inclined to keep on and accept help after Dr T dropped me like that. What’s to say others won’t simply do the same? Rejection hurts. Knowing treatment has failed yet again hurts.
Despite this, I’ve still agreed to an appointment next week to see D. Sigh.