Help
My second session with my therapist, the one that Jesus paid for, didn't go so well. Well, that's wrong, it made me think differently, and in many ways more usefully, it's just that it felt like I was bullied into a change of head. And I could see that accepting the truth and facing things was a positive step. It just wasn't a happy truth, and I left the session feeling like that was it. My therapist suggesting I was cured, and not making it easy for me to go back.
Only in many ways I felt worse than before, it felt like I had a head that had been mixed up with a big spoon, without even a, 'See you next week,' as reassurance that the mixture would turn into... well pick your own analogy. I was thinking cakes, but I don't really want a Victoria Sponge for a head. Anyway, you get the idea.
So I told Steve about the olden days. 'In the olden days they sorted things out for themselves. They didn't get help, they didn't need therapists.'
Steve wisely ignored me and found me the numbers of an organisation who might help. So on a bad day where my head was so weird I felt like cutting it off (that's an analogy too, in case you're wondering. Although if I had cut it I wonder if it was chocolate or jam in the middle..?) On a day I felt bad I got in touch with them. I didn't want to ring their numbers, but I sent an email. Writing I can do. Phones, no thank you.
So I sent an email to some organisation with a lot of letters, letters whose meaning I didn't want to know. And I clicked refresh on Hotmail a lot that day.
I clicked it a lot the next day too. Now five days later with no reply, I'm convincing myself of the olden days approach again. And wondering if Evening Primrose Oil is any good.
The thing is there were a lot of letters in that email address. Maybe I accidentily typed the wrong ones? I could have sent my cry for help to info@crasac.org.uk? And Croyden Rabbit And Squirrel Ambulance Center wouldn't know what had hit them. I would have panicked some old dear in the office who'd be worried about the mental wellbeing of a rabbit called Jo, before she realised rabbits can't type. Oh, ok then, back to the knitting, 'delete'. And all that wouldn't happen in the olden days, would it? They didn't have email.
Only in many ways I felt worse than before, it felt like I had a head that had been mixed up with a big spoon, without even a, 'See you next week,' as reassurance that the mixture would turn into... well pick your own analogy. I was thinking cakes, but I don't really want a Victoria Sponge for a head. Anyway, you get the idea.
So I told Steve about the olden days. 'In the olden days they sorted things out for themselves. They didn't get help, they didn't need therapists.'
Steve wisely ignored me and found me the numbers of an organisation who might help. So on a bad day where my head was so weird I felt like cutting it off (that's an analogy too, in case you're wondering. Although if I had cut it I wonder if it was chocolate or jam in the middle..?) On a day I felt bad I got in touch with them. I didn't want to ring their numbers, but I sent an email. Writing I can do. Phones, no thank you.
So I sent an email to some organisation with a lot of letters, letters whose meaning I didn't want to know. And I clicked refresh on Hotmail a lot that day.
I clicked it a lot the next day too. Now five days later with no reply, I'm convincing myself of the olden days approach again. And wondering if Evening Primrose Oil is any good.
The thing is there were a lot of letters in that email address. Maybe I accidentily typed the wrong ones? I could have sent my cry for help to info@crasac.org.uk? And Croyden Rabbit And Squirrel Ambulance Center wouldn't know what had hit them. I would have panicked some old dear in the office who'd be worried about the mental wellbeing of a rabbit called Jo, before she realised rabbits can't type. Oh, ok then, back to the knitting, 'delete'. And all that wouldn't happen in the olden days, would it? They didn't have email.
posted by Jo at 8:12 PM
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