Therapy sucks.
There I sit, every Monday at 2 pm. I am on my fourth therapist. He's young, nice, engaged, Canadian. He's all about pragmatic approaches and cognitive behavioral therapy.
All weekend I had been practicing what I wanted to talk about. I wished to discuss self-discipline and how to obtain it. Because I can't seem to get myself to do jack shit. Every night, I tell myself how I am going to get up early and then do the few small things that I need to accomplish. But every morning I wake up tired and anxious and unwilling to do anything other than hide in bed.
If I could just learn to discipline myself, I think, than everything will fall into place. Just get up. Just do the work. Just engage.
But I can't. I don't know why.
My therapist asked me a series of questions that eventually got us talking about my parents and how I was raised and why I am the way I am.
The conversation raised all the feelings and memories that I have been actively trying to supress with weed, junk food, and a free trial of Disney+.
And now those feelings are all on the surface and in my shoulders and tying my fingers into knots.
My roommate asked therapy went:
"Raw," I responded.
"In a good way?"
"Eventually."
The only way out is through.
Having all these things on the surface is essential if I am ever going to move past them.
But I am feeling impatient because nothing ever gets resolved.
I am frustrated that I still seem so crippled by everything.
I want to fake my death.
Become a welder in Wyoming.
But I wouldn't be dead to the one thing I am trying to escape from.
Hell, if all I needed was a change of scenery, I am here now in Tulsa where no one knows me and I can present myself as anyone I want to be.
But it's my brain I can't escape from.
It's my memories that always find my new address.
I feel weak.
I feel tired.
I feel like I am going to spend another week in bed.
3:15 p.m. - 2020-02-10
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