The other day I set myself a few goals for the day. Change all the clocks, take a shower, do laundry, read something, clean up (at least do the kitchen), order firewood, or blow the leaves away with the leaf blower. Well, of course, I haven’t done any of these things. I want to. I really, seriously do. But, before I know it, it’s 10 pm and predictably I ain’t done shit.
I’m not really sure what I do all day. I can’t nap. I can’t concentrate long enough to read anything but a few blogs. I don’t have a job or, for that matter, any real responsibilities or expectations of me.
Actually, I can forgive myself for last week as I spent the majority of it in the throes of suicidal ideation. But, I didn’t die and now i’m thinking I should try to do the things I should be doing.
It’s 11 am and I’ve managed to change one clock. Yea.
Yesterday I went to my weekly session with D. I was a wee bit anxious as I had cancelled last week and failed to respond to his text asking me if things were OK (They weren’t).
His first few questions concerned me though.
“Were you in the hospital last November?
“Do you think you should start taking your meds. again?”
“Uh, in my experience, meds. don’t help me feel better. Different, but not better.”
“And you’re not seeing any doctors.”
I wondered where he was going with this.
When I told him I didn’t respond to his text because I didn’t want to deal with his questions or take his advice he accepted it graciously, professionally. When I told him i’d broken a blood vessel in my eye due to puking, he asked “overdose?” “Yes, alcohol.” Bastard, knows me fairly well.
When he suggested that I would have talked to him if it had been a crisis, I got brave and told him that, in fact, it had been a crisis-like situation and I chose to handle it by rejecting any and all help. I let it play out as it wanted. I told him I had been visiting suicide websites, worked on my will, and wrote a letter for my relatives. Still he kept a cool, nonchalant demeanor. Good boy.
All in all, the session went fairly well. I was relieved that he didn’t seem mad at me. Still, I felt the transference when, as a “doorknob question”, I asked him, like a 4 year old would – “What would you have done or said if I had told the truth?”
“Well, I would have asked you some questions and made sure you were in a safe place.” (translation : locked up)
Lastly, “You wouldn’t ever call the cops on me, would you?” “In twenty years I’ve only done that once.” Hmmm. But he didn’t really say no.