therapy
I realized yesterday that I've retreated back into my head and was getting comfortable again. I've stopped going out with friends for the most part. It'd funny how things just slowly slip up on you. I just looked back and it's been 2 months since I've really posted anything personal.
.
I've taken a change of pace with my therapist. I felt we were getting anywhere the past couple of months, and I felt his technique wasn't working for me, so I told him I wanted to change our format and shake things up. I wanted to switch from us just sitting around chit-chating about random topics (his theory being that whatever needed to come out, would) to taking a more active approach of him probing, questioning, and pushing me. While I have found it more stressful and uncomfortable, I've also found it more productive.
For 18 months I've sat on the left side of the sofa, which placed me in the corner of his office. I've sat with my left leg crossed over my right. I've sat with either my arms crossed across my chest, or with my left arm on the armrest and my right arm on the back of the couch, depending on how relaxed and comfortable I was feeling that day. Dr. Katz sits in front of me, about 5 feet away, in his swivel chair with his decaf Irish breakfast tea. Yesterday ended that trend. He told me to get up and move to the chair that sits in the middle of his office, to put both feet flat on the floor, and to place one hand on each leg. While I thought it was odd, I did as he instructed. Then he just stared at me. Well, I thought he was staring at me. He was actually watching the clock that was behind me. When I first sat down, he asked me how changed locations affected me. I told him it didn't. After sitting there for about 1 minute, he asked me again. I realized that I was about to crawl out of my skin. My legs were starting to twitch, my heart rate was going up, my hands were sweating like crazy, and I had almost stopped breathing. He asked me what I was afraid of; what could happen to me while sitting alone, in a locked office, with someone I trust. My only thought was of someone coming up behind me, placing their hand over my mouth, and slitting my throat. The more I sat there, the more panicked I became. Finally, after looking around the room and behind me, I began to calm down again. We discussed how I get this same feeling when I'm alone in the house at night. It's gotten better over the years, but sometimes, like yesterday, it can hit pretty hard. He asked me if I knew the person stalking me or had any description of the person/thing. I don't. He asked me if the killer was myself; a manifestation of the rage and pain inside me. I don't know. He asked me if I ever had homicidal thoughts. Who doesn't? We continued a discussion down this path for a bit, but in the end we agreed to disagree.
Then things took a change in direction. We went from talking about homicidal thoughts to suicidal thoughts and self destruction. I've been fortunate in my life. With all that's happened and all I've dealt with, suicide has never been a desire or an option. It would be too easy and quick. I desire pain, torture, and being broken.
The pain is for a sense of being. Pain tells me I'm alive. Pain is a way I can force myself to feel something in an otherwise numb existence. Pain also keeps me present and forces me to be aware. It's the one emotion/sensation I have control over.
Torture is my penance. For what? I don't know. For not being able to keep my parents together. For not being the perfect son. For not being the perfect husband. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For keeping quiet. For protecting myself.
Being broken is my release and redemption. I often fantasize about joining the military and spending the rest of my life in bootcamp. Part of it is the pain, but part of it is the need to be physically, and more important mentally/emotionally, broken. It's like a cyst; it has to be cut open to heal. It feels like my life is resting on a crumbling foundation. I can't repair it and I can't keep building on top of it. Everything inside me says to destroy everything and rebuild from the ground up; to hit rock bottom and try again. But does life have a reset button?
I've thought about selling the house, quiting my job, and leaving the state. I've thought about starting over where no one knows me. But what if the problems follow me. Then what have I accomplished? It's just me running away and looking for an easy solution. To stay and fight and work on things is harder. I like pain and suffering, don't I? Seems like a good fit.
So after spending an hour talking about homicide, suicide, and self destruction, I went and saw the movie 300 last night. Pretty good movie. That much violence, gore, and rage resonated a little too much with me, though. I staid in a funk the rest of the night.
.
I've taken a change of pace with my therapist. I felt we were getting anywhere the past couple of months, and I felt his technique wasn't working for me, so I told him I wanted to change our format and shake things up. I wanted to switch from us just sitting around chit-chating about random topics (his theory being that whatever needed to come out, would) to taking a more active approach of him probing, questioning, and pushing me. While I have found it more stressful and uncomfortable, I've also found it more productive.
For 18 months I've sat on the left side of the sofa, which placed me in the corner of his office. I've sat with my left leg crossed over my right. I've sat with either my arms crossed across my chest, or with my left arm on the armrest and my right arm on the back of the couch, depending on how relaxed and comfortable I was feeling that day. Dr. Katz sits in front of me, about 5 feet away, in his swivel chair with his decaf Irish breakfast tea. Yesterday ended that trend. He told me to get up and move to the chair that sits in the middle of his office, to put both feet flat on the floor, and to place one hand on each leg. While I thought it was odd, I did as he instructed. Then he just stared at me. Well, I thought he was staring at me. He was actually watching the clock that was behind me. When I first sat down, he asked me how changed locations affected me. I told him it didn't. After sitting there for about 1 minute, he asked me again. I realized that I was about to crawl out of my skin. My legs were starting to twitch, my heart rate was going up, my hands were sweating like crazy, and I had almost stopped breathing. He asked me what I was afraid of; what could happen to me while sitting alone, in a locked office, with someone I trust. My only thought was of someone coming up behind me, placing their hand over my mouth, and slitting my throat. The more I sat there, the more panicked I became. Finally, after looking around the room and behind me, I began to calm down again. We discussed how I get this same feeling when I'm alone in the house at night. It's gotten better over the years, but sometimes, like yesterday, it can hit pretty hard. He asked me if I knew the person stalking me or had any description of the person/thing. I don't. He asked me if the killer was myself; a manifestation of the rage and pain inside me. I don't know. He asked me if I ever had homicidal thoughts. Who doesn't? We continued a discussion down this path for a bit, but in the end we agreed to disagree.
Then things took a change in direction. We went from talking about homicidal thoughts to suicidal thoughts and self destruction. I've been fortunate in my life. With all that's happened and all I've dealt with, suicide has never been a desire or an option. It would be too easy and quick. I desire pain, torture, and being broken.
The pain is for a sense of being. Pain tells me I'm alive. Pain is a way I can force myself to feel something in an otherwise numb existence. Pain also keeps me present and forces me to be aware. It's the one emotion/sensation I have control over.
Torture is my penance. For what? I don't know. For not being able to keep my parents together. For not being the perfect son. For not being the perfect husband. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For keeping quiet. For protecting myself.
Being broken is my release and redemption. I often fantasize about joining the military and spending the rest of my life in bootcamp. Part of it is the pain, but part of it is the need to be physically, and more important mentally/emotionally, broken. It's like a cyst; it has to be cut open to heal. It feels like my life is resting on a crumbling foundation. I can't repair it and I can't keep building on top of it. Everything inside me says to destroy everything and rebuild from the ground up; to hit rock bottom and try again. But does life have a reset button?
I've thought about selling the house, quiting my job, and leaving the state. I've thought about starting over where no one knows me. But what if the problems follow me. Then what have I accomplished? It's just me running away and looking for an easy solution. To stay and fight and work on things is harder. I like pain and suffering, don't I? Seems like a good fit.
So after spending an hour talking about homicide, suicide, and self destruction, I went and saw the movie 300 last night. Pretty good movie. That much violence, gore, and rage resonated a little too much with me, though. I staid in a funk the rest of the night.