Confronting My Therapist

A little background -- Bill is my husband.  My therapist used to be his therapist.  And even though I have never sworn in a blog post before I swear once in this one.  I tried to find another word to use, but nothing else conveyed the same emotion.  I did try.

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Telling the truth to power is difficult.  Telling the truth to anyone can be hard.  Especially if you grew up in a situation where the truth was only appreciated if it was what they wanted to hear.  Otherwise, you'd be punished.

Well, that's the situation I grew up in and today I had to tell my therapist something he might not want to hear.  I had to give him feedback.  There was something he was doing that was counter-productive to my healing.

I was anxious.  But I knew that it was important.  He had done it multiple times and it was a big problem for me.

So today I got to therapy, all geared up and ready to go.  I can do this.  I can do this.  Don't let him start talking about something else.  Dive right it.  Just get it done so we can move on.  I can do this.

Well, he started talking in the hall on the way to his office and by the time we were in the door he already had a review going of my progress.  I went along, wondering how long I could put it off and knowing that it had to be today. 

We spent half an hour reviewing.  Talking about how I'm doing on my regimen and if I feel better and why all of this matters.  It was time well spent.  I covered things I wanted to cover.  But it wasn't what I was dying to say.

As we wrapped up the review he asked what direction I wanted to go today.  He mentioned a few of the things we'd been working on in the past that don't feel finished.

I stopped him.  I told him we could get to that in a minute.  First I needed to address something with him.  I needed to give him some feedback about something that isn't working in our relationship.  Then I asked if he was ready.  He asked if he needed a seatbelt.  I told him no.

I took a deep breath and began.  It went something like this:

"There are going to be times when I need to talk about Bill, to process things.  There are still lots of times he's an ass.  I need to be able to talk about that in order to heal.  Whenever I start to talk about Bill you re-frame what I'm saying so fast that I can't say what I need to say.  Or you say, 'But this is better, right?'  You seem to be defensive when I talk about him.  I don't know if it's because you like him and feel like you need to defend him.  Or if it's because when I tell you he's not doing well you feel like it's an attack on your work because I'm saying he's not cured.  Or if it's because you're both men and you feel like when I say negative things about him it's an attack on men in general.  Whatever it is, it feels like you're defensive.  I shut down and am unable to say the things I need to say."

He said, "Okay."  He pondered for a minute.  Then he asked me if I knew what counter-transference is.  I said I did.  (If you don't, you'll have to look it up - sorry.)  He said counter-transference is not uncommon with therapists and they don't know when they are doing it unless someone points it out to them.  He said that he still didn't recognize it in himself, but that if I'm saying it's happening he needs to believe me.  He's been a therapist long enough to know he doesn't know everything.  Twenty years ago, when he was just starting, he probably would have balked at what I said because he thought he knew it all.  But now when someone says something like that he takes it as truth and tries to fix it.

He told me strategies he would use to try to be aware and stop doing it in the future.  I told him that if it happens again I will tell him to shut up and listen to me.  Or throw the pillow at him.

I told him I'd been nervous about confronting him with it.  He told me it was a good sign of progress that I was willing to stand up for what I needed, especially to a man.  He then told me he knew I would never say anything to hurt him, only to help him or help us do better.  He was right.

This is more evidence that my therapist is a good fit for me.  I trust him.  He's a good man.  I was pretty sure he'd want to know if something he was doing was hurting me.  I was right.

It was a good session.

Noticing Progress

I want to be perfect.  I want to have all the answers.  I want to be able to do anything and everything all the time.  Be everything my family and friends want me to be.  Is that really so much to ask?

Of course it is, and it sounds ridiculous.  But time and again those are the standards I judge myself by.

I walk through my house and notice everything that needs to be done.  I notice the mess.  I notice things that are broken.  I notice what I've never really liked about the house that I still haven't changed.  And I feel bad.  I feel like I am not enough because it's not all perfect.  Right now!

I wake up and start moving at the beginning of the day.  From the moment I start to stir, I feel tired.  So tired.  As I get moving I notice how much my head hurts.  Maybe I notice how dizzy I am or how blurry my vision is.  And how little motivation I have to do anything.  I try to get my kids up and off to school, getting irritated and grumpy in the process.  And I feel like a failure because I lose my cool and snap at them.  I want to be the mom that's happy all the time and participates in everything they do.  I want to be at every event.  I want to play with them and study with them and help them when they are sad.  Every time!

But I can't.

I am a problem solver by nature.  My mind is constantly working to fix things:  physical, emotional, spiritual, psychological -- and all the other "al" words.  Which serves me well much of the time.  But it also holds me back and causes me pain.

We can only truly focus on one thing at a time.  Sometimes we fool ourselves into believing that we are multi-tasking, but we're not really.  Our brain isn't paying attention to lots of things at once.  It's swapping out attention from one thing to another, sometimes so fast that we don't realize that's what is happening. 

Why does the inability of our brains to multi-task matter?  Because if we are looking at the problems we are not seeing the successes.  This is a major struggle for me.

I see the messy house.  I don't see the six trailer-loads of stuff I cleaned out and gave to charity or the five trailer-loads that went to the dump.  I don't see all the things I gave away to family and friends.  I don't see all the free things that were offered to me that I politely refused to keep from bringing more stuff into my life.  I see that my life isn't spartan and pristine, not that it's so much better and more peaceful.

I see how tired I am.  I don't see all the doctor's visits, therapy visits, prescriptions, tests, lifestyle changes, and progress I've made.  I don't see that I used to go to bed for days, semi-sedated just to face another day full of pain.  I don't see those months on end when I didn't leave my house except for church.  I don't see those times when I was so depressed that I scared my husband.  Or those times when my mental state was so bad that I sliced my own arms open.  I don't see that these things aren't true anymore.  I overlook the fact that I've checked back into life.  I don't see that I am doing so much, so many things.  I only see all the things I want to do but can't.

Not today.  Today I see progress.  I am not all I want to be.  My life is not all I want it to be.  But I have done so much and come so far.  And that's what I'm going to focus on today.

Gay Marriage and My Heart

Full disclosure:  I am Mormon and very active in my faith.  I am a registered republican, but have been known to cross party lines.  I have lived in Utah my entire life.

I mention those things because they may color my opinions.  I try to be well read.  I love sharing ideas and learning from others.  I like to challenge the status quo and ask why.

And I have struggled with the issue of gay marriage.

For years, when I was young, it was a cultural thing.  Everyone around me said it was wrong so it was wrong.  The people around me were good people; I could trust their judgment.  This was before the internet.  Before I started watching the news and participating in the political process.  Before I looked beyond my own little Happy Valley.  Before I really studied my own religion and developed my own religious beliefs.

As I have grown I have been exposed to different ideas and different people.  The internet has made our world smaller.  Sitting in my living room I can read the words and thoughts of people from any walk of life.  And I do.

And I still struggle.

My religion teaches that marriage is ordained of God and is a union between a man and a woman.  I believe this.  I wish that was enough.  I wish I could just say that's it and take a stand and be done with it.

But I can't.  My heart is torn.  I know too many good people who are gay or lesbian, people doing good things, living good lives.  People who love with all their heart, no matter who they love.  People I want my children to know and associate with.

My religion does not teach that being gay is a sin.  Many people think we do, but it's not the case.  My religion does teach that sexual relations outside of marriage are a sin.  Therefore, since a gay person cannot marry within our faith, a gay sexual relationship is considered a sin.

Sin or not, I don't believe it's my place to judge another person.  That would be pretty hypocritical.  I sin a lot.  I don't want others judging me for it.  Plus, it's just not the job of man to judge.  No matter how much we think we know about a situation, we don't know everything.  Only God does.  Only God should judge us.

I judge situations.  I judge actions.  I judge choices.  But only in regards to myself.  I judge whether a decision is right for me.  I judge whether I feel better about myself and the choices I make when I am with a certain person.  But I try not to ever write a person off for who they are or how they choose to live.

All of that said, I still struggle.

Religiously speaking, I still believe marriage is between a man and a woman.  That is my personal choice.

But I don't believe in choosing someone else's path.  I don't believe in forcing others to live the way I want.  I think legislating social issues is a dangerous thing.

I am a politically active person, but I don't want to have to take a stand on this.  I'm just still so torn.

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I welcome discussion and even passionate dialogue on this topic.  However, hateful or abusive comments will be removed.

Post-it Note Therapy

I almost cancelled.  I wanted desperately to cancel.  How could I go to therapy if I couldn't speak?

It's not that I had laryngitis or bronchitis or any kind of injury or illness that affected my voice.  I just couldn't make myself open my mouth and say the things that were in my heart.

But I didn't cancel.  I went.  I trust my therapist.  And I knew that isolating myself and shutting down wasn't the healthy answer.  Even though it was a tactic I'd used many times in the past, I knew I had to push through.

I cried off and on all morning before I went.  I was able to pull myself together enough to seem okay with my kids.  I even did okay signing in at the therapist's office.

The secretary handled the money, scheduled a new appointment, and handed me the questionnaire.  That wonderful, glorious, dreaded, silly series of questions that is somehow supposed to tell my therapist how I'm doing and if I'm making progress.  I looked at it and laughed inside, knowing I could make it say whatever I wanted.  Knowing I could present a happy, healthy front and fake my way through the session.  And knowing that I just couldn't play the game that day.

My therapist came to the waiting room and greeted me.  As we walked back to his office, he reached for my paper.  I handed it to him.  He looked at it and said, "It's blank."  And I answered, "I just couldn't do it."

He said, "Okay," and we continued to his office.  He said he was going to get a drink of water and offered me one (no, thank you).  He also asked if I'd like to fill out the questionnaire now.  I said, "No," in no uncertain terms.  He said, "Okay.  I get no," and left to get his water.

He returned to find me sitting on the floor, with my knees pulled up to my chest.  He closed the door and commented on the fact that I was sitting on the floor.  I said that sometimes I just need to sit on the floor.

He said that was fine and commented that seemed upset.  I didn't respond.  He asked what I'd like to work on today.  I started crying.

I cried and cried.  I held my face in my hands and cried.  I wanted to speak.  I tried to speak.  But I couldn't.

He waited.

After about five minutes of me just crying and not being able to say anything he said that it was okay to just sit and cry.  That was valuable therapy time, too.  That I didn't have to talk in order to heal.

I continued to cry and be silent.  Inside, I was screaming.  I had so many things I wanted to talk about, why couldn't I open my mouth and speak?

He asked if it would be okay to ask some questions.  I said it would.  He asked why I was sitting on the floor.  I thought for a minute.  All I could come up with was, "It's less effort" and "It's safer."  He asked if I felt unsafe.  I said I didn't know, it's just what came to mind.

More long minutes of silence, except for my crying.

Eventually I was able to ask for a post-it note.  I took out my pen and wrote:
"I'm just so sad and I don't understand why."

Through great effort, I gave him the note.  He read it.  And he said, "Sometimes it's good to be sad with someone else, to not be sad alone."  And I cried more.  So much of my sadness is experienced alone.  Seldom does someone offer to be with me while I am sad.  Especially without trying to make me not be sad.

He asked if times like this, when I am so sad, are when I want to hurt myself.  I acknowledged that I had thought about it, but I hadn't done so.  Except that I had stopped eating.  He reminded me that not eating is a form of self-injury.  And he praised me for not cutting (or scratching, in my case).

Over the course of the hour I was able to give him three more post-it notes:

  *  "There are a thousand things running around in my brain.  I don't understand why I can't say any of them." -- He said that when the time is right, if they need to be said, they will come out.

  *  "No matter how hard I work or how much progress I make, I feel like there will always be this underlying sadness and loneliness." -- He said it wouldn't be like this forever.  We could take it from a 9 to a 3 or from a 7 to a 1.  But he also said that he hoped I wouldn't ever lose it completely or I would lose my ability to empathize with others; I wouldn't be able to help others through my blog like I can now.

  *  "I am fighting a battle on so many fronts in my life so much of the time.  I am just so tired of fighting; sometimes I just want to quit." -- He said it's okay to take a break.  I need to allow myself to take time off.  I need to give myself permission for self-care.  This is just a break.

"It's okay to take a break; it's not okay to hurt yourself."  As he said this, I felt strengthened.

In the hour I spent with him, there may have been five minutes of talking.  I probably spoke under a minute.  And I cried the whole time.

But I'm glad I went.  It was valuable therapy.  It was nice to have someone really see my pain and validate it.  It was nice to have someone sit with me as I cried.

As I prepared to leave he asked what the goal was (meaning what I would work on until I saw him again).  I said, "Don't hurt myself."  And he agreed.

I am somewhat better now, although the sadness and loneliness is just under the surface.  I still cry quite easily.  But since then I've been able to communicate a little with a couple of people and I've gotten back on my regimen.

And I haven't hurt myself.

Sewing on Patches

I'm so glad I got my boy; I'm also glad I only got one.

I used to say this all the time when my son was little.  He was so different from my girls.  It was fun watching the world through his eyes, but it was also difficult.  He seemed to be on a search and destroy mission.  It seemed like every room he walked into was new territory to conquer.  He scanned the area for weakness and then unleashed an incredible force for one so small.  He broke more things than his four sisters combined.

Not that he was intentionally destructive, he just had a different way of exploring and discovering.  And he didn't have a natural tendency to control his strength.  He got so excited about things and ran head first into them, sometimes literally.  Then, when he saw them broken, he felt so sad.  He didn't mean to.

I can still see his little two-year old face, round, with a pouty lip.  Big tears welling up in his eyes.  Because even though he was powerful, he was tender.

Maintaining that balance has been a goal of mine.  Stay powerful, but be tender.  Sometimes it's gone well; other times, not so much.

But raising a man isn't easy -- and that's what I'm doing.  If I can remember that in the tough moments, then I can get through it.  And so can he.

I remember when he was a cub scout.  As his birthday approached, he still had a lot to do to receive his patch (whichever year, it was always the same).  We'd begin a drive to finish in time.  He'd start with energy and before long decide he didn't want to do all the work and it would be fine to just not get it this time.  But it wasn't fine for me.

My brothers didn't do much in scouting.  Neither did my husband.  There was no big family push and I had no clue what I was doing.  But I felt like it was important to finish what he started and to believe in himself.  I felt like it was important for him to learn to do hard things so that he could be proud of his efforts. 

So we'd push through.  And he'd finish just in time, sometimes yelling, crying, and fighting with me all the way.  And then, when he was done, my little boy would thank me for making him do it.  I can still see that face, too.  My grinning eight-year old smiling at me as he received his award.  An award he earned.  An award he was proud of.

There have been many times since when he wanted to quit things.  I'd be lying if I said I pushed him to finish all of them.  But I push when he's expressed a desire and then tries to back out because it's hard.  He says he wants to get his Eagle.  I will do whatever I can to make sure he follows through.

The other night I sewed his Star patch on his boy scout uniform.  This shirt is so much bigger.  He's fifteen now and practically a man.  He did so much more of the work under his own direction.  He doesn't need me as much as he used to.

But I still sew on the patches.  And I do so with honor and pride.  I am so proud of the young man he is becoming.  I want him to be proud to stand in that uniform.  As proud as I am to see him do so.

He speaks of joining the Marines one day.  There's a long time before that could happen, but I can already see it in my mind.  I'm not going to lie, if he changes his mind before then, I'm probably not going to try to talk him back into it.  The idea scares me.

But if he doesn't change his mind, I will be honored.  I will support his decision.  I will sew on patches or pin on badges as long as he will let me, until some young woman takes my place.

And I will know that I've raised a fine young man.

I Was Too Embarrassed to Say Anything

There's so much I don't remember from my childhood and teen years, but a few things are crystal clear.  I don't remember how old I was or who I was with, but I remember how it made me feel.

My friends and I decided to go to the high school baseball game.  I think I was a sophomore.  It was a warm spring day.  We sat on the bleachers looking at the boys and talking about mindless things.  The bleachers were semi-full, but not packed.

Before long, I felt someone brush my upper side.  I assumed I was encroaching into someone's space and had been bumped.  I scooted over, giving them space.  It soon happened again.  A definite brush in the same spot on my side, near my breast.  I still assumed blame.  I glanced behind me to see how close I was to this person and how far I needed to move to be out of his way.  He didn't seem that close, but I scooted again to give him space.  It happened again.  I was beginning to believe this wasn't accidental; he meant to touch me.  For whatever reason.

I was young and naive.  And I was embarrassed.  While I was pretty sure it wasn't an accident, what if I said something and he claimed innocence.  How horrifying it would be to wrongly accuse someone.  How shamed I would feel as people around me told me to relax and quit making a big deal out of an accidental contact. 

I didn't say anything.  I scooted again.  By now I had moved away more than a foot from my initial seat.  It happened again.  I froze inside.  I didn't know what to do.  I was embarrassed and scared.  I didn't want my friends to think I was being silly.  I didn't want to make a big deal of it.  So I got up and moved.  I moved to a seat below my friends under the guise that I wanted to turn around and talk to them.  I didn't want the man that kept touching me to think I had moved because of him.

I stayed there for the rest of the game, or until my friends decided they'd had enough baseball, who knows.  What I do know is that as we left a couple of other girls that had been watching the game came over to talk to us. 

One of them said to me, "Did you know that guy?"
I answered, "What guy?"
She said, "The guy that kept touching you."

And in that moment I knew I was right.  She explained that she'd thought of saying something but thought I knew him.  They had been sitting behind us and watched the whole thing.  She watched him stroke my side, watched me move away, watched him move closer to me and do it again.  They watched this and commented on it to each other but said nothing to me or him.

I appreciated her question and comment so much because it validated my feelings.  Something was wrong and I didn't feel safe, but I didn't trust my own feelings.  Until it was validated, I was too scared to say it was not okay behavior.  I was too embarrassed thinking I might wrongly accuse someone.

I was about 16.  He was at least 40.  He kept touching me even though I tried to move away from him.  And I felt like I'd done something wrong.

It would be a long time before I learned that men sometimes brush up against women in crowded places to get a sexual rush.  I was dumbfounded when I learned that this was a crime that was actually prosecuted, and that it often leads to these men committing worse sexual crimes.  Dumbfounded and validated.

I didn't say anything because I was embarrassed.  Because I though no one would believe me.  Because I thought it was my fault.

The same reasons I stayed silent over many years and many sexual assaults -- more explicit and undeniable than the one I describe here.

I have never reported a sexual assault, or an assault of any kind, to the police.  I never told my parents or anyone else.  I didn't want anyone to know what had happened to me.  I thought it made me dirty.  I knew I would be verbally attacked.  I just wanted to move on.

I learned to tell my story because of a trusted friend that I knew wouldn't victimize me again through his reaction.  I have since had lots of therapy.  And I've told my stories many times.  Because even though I still fear those things, it's not worth staying silent.  Too many women have the same experiences and stay silent.  I want to be strong for them and stand up and say that what happened to me was wrong.  I want to offer them my strength until they find their own.  I want them to know they are not alone.

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My post was inspired by this post by London Feminist (contains a couple of swears).  It's important that we believe each other.  It's important that we speak.

My Visit to the Psychiatrist

Some of you may remember that at my last physical my doctor suggested I get back into therapy and see a psychiatrist.  I am back in therapy, making progress, and this past Monday I finally met with a psychiatrist.

I've been both eager and anxious about going.  I was eager to feel better and had hopes that she could help me.  And I was very anxious about the medicinal roller coaster of trying new meds until we find something that works or give up in failure.  But I trust my doctor and had a good recommendation for this psychiatrist.  So, off I went.

It was kind of like going to therapy with a doctor.  Lots of psychological and medical questions.  She took an extensive history and asked follow up questions about my life and behaviors.  The history part took about forty-five minutes.  I'm telling you, she asked questions I've never been asked.  And considering my therapeutic and medical history, that's saying something.  Some of these questions sparked thoughts I hadn't had before.  They changed my perception.

She asked about my sleeping habits.  I don't sleep well.  I haven't for years.  I gave a description of my typical bedtime, rising, and nap habits.  She asked me to quantify it.  In a twenty-four hour period, how many hours do you sleep?  I'd never quantified it before.  I knew my habits were bad.  I knew I should be getting more sleep.  But until she had me add it up I had no idea that I was sleeping only 4-6 hours on a regular basis, including naps.

She asked about my eating habits.  Ugh!  I hate this topic.  I described my general aversion to food and my typical eating patterns.  I knew I didn't eat well.  I had no idea how bad until she asked me to quantify it.  Do you eat enough to sustain life?  Calorically, probably.  Nutritionally, not even close.

Having someone ask that and having to admit how badly I was failing was eye opening.  But not as much as her next statement.  Earlier in the interview, we'd discussed my history with self-harm.  I'd explained that I hadn't purposely hurt myself for over a year, except for once after a particularly difficult therapy session.

She said that sleep deprivation and starvation are forms of self-injury (common with a history like mine).

Now, I don't know if that hit you hard, but it hit me hard.  I had never thought of those behaviors as self-harm.  But after considering it for a few moments I realized that she was absolutely right.  It didn't mean I was converted and ready to change in that instant, but it made an impact.

She also said that sleeping during the day is a self-soothing strategy.  An unhealthy one.

Again, not something I'd thought of.  (After thinking of that and the other bomb shell I spent a lot of time over the next few days wondering why I am self-injuring and self-soothing my way through my life.  I guess I still have lots of work to do.)

She said she wouldn't think of trying meds until I start sleeping.  So many of my symptoms could be sleep related.  Also, she'd like to build on success rather than failure.  In other words, let's try something we know will help instead of working our way through things that might not.  Once we fix the sleep problems we can see if we still have things to work on.

Of course, she doesn't simply want to work on the sleep problem.  That's just the beginning.  Basically, my life is in complete overhaul.  She wants me to change several of my behavior patterns.  She was very direct and specific.  She said I am well on my way to an eating disorder (something I'd actually considered before).  And then she gave me the following goals.

*  I am to eat three meals and three snacks a day, on schedule.
*  I am to sleep 7-8 hours a night, going to bed and getting up at the same time each day -- zero naps!  (Melatonin is allowed)
*  I am to drink 96 oz. of water a day.
*  I am to walk at least 20 minutes a day 4-5 times a week.
*  No soda after 3:00pm, as the carbonation interferes with sleep.

Having her spell it out so definitively is helpful.  No thinking on my part, just follow through.  She set standards.  It's my job to do my best to meet them.  It was also helpful when she told me that changing patterns like this can take 3-6 weeks.  You see, I've done it for a month at a time before and seen no change.  It helped to have a time frame.

I agreed to do my best.  I will go back and see her in two months.  She also ordered a sleep study; I meet with that doctor next week.

She works in the same office as my therapist.  I saw him a couple of days later.  I am not exaggerating to say that he was tickled pink with how well it went and that I was taking it seriously.  He said only about 30% of patients follow through with a plan like this.  They both also agreed that whether these changes take away all my symptoms or not, they will help my therapy to be more successful.  I know that's true.  Therapy always goes better when I feel better, especially when I have the energy needed to maintain boundaries.

I expected sleep to be the toughest one.  It's not.  Not by a long shot. 

Walking is tough because I have a bit of a social phobia thing happening right now.  The idea of going out and walking through my neighborhood makes me anxious.  It doesn't mean I won't do it, but it's tough.

The water has been relatively easy.  A lemon Propel Zero packet in my water bottle and I'm good to go.  It's also cut way down on my Diet Coke consumption.  I am making a lot of trips to the bathroom, but that is supposed to level out over time.

The biggest difficulty for me has been food.  I really had no idea it could possibly be so hard to eat.  I eat every two and a half hours now.  Meal, snack, meal, snack, meal, snack.  I have to set an alarm on my phone to keep myself on schedule.  I try to make healthy choices, but I'm not working super hard on balance throughout the day yet.  Right now the goal is to teach myself to be hungry and respond to it.

I did okay for the first few days.  I ate on schedule.  I made healthy choices.  But it got harder yesterday.

It was time to eat lunch.  I went to the kitchen and tried to find something that looked good.  Nothing.  So then I looked for something that would meet the basic needs of a meal.  I ended up choosing a peanut butter on wheat sandwich and yogurt.  As I took my first bite I started crying.  I desperately didn't want to eat this food.  It didn't taste bad, I just didn't want to eat it.  I forced my way through.  It was hard just to open my mouth and put the food in.  I sometimes gagged as I swallowed.  And I cried the whole time, but I did it.  Then I was super nauseous afterward.  For several hours.

The high and determination I felt those first few days seems to be gone.  Now it's just a chore.  It's so hard to find food that I like.  It always has been.  I prefer somewhat bland food with few ingredients.  Today, as I make up the grocery list, I find myself struggling to think of things to put on it that I will eat.

It sucks.  It seems like I spend my whole day thinking about food.  What am I going to eat next?  With all these changes I'm working on, I'm struggling to even think about anything else.  I'm not taking on anything new or making any other plans for a while.  I just don't have the time and mental energy to do one more thing.

But I am doing my best.  I have always been one to do my homework.  I just hope it's worth it.