therapy

Back to it

March 3, 2014 · 2 comments

texts

Where do I start?

I’m still looking for a job. Part time, preferably. For my sanity.

I re-enrolled in uni. Master of Applied Linguistics.

spocksyntax

Which means relearning Syntax. And how to write essays.

I still live with my parents, and my sister and her kids.

Which I’m grateful for after we nearly lost her last year.

I have a boyfriend. It’s intense and emotional and wonderful.

I’m still in twice weekly therapy.

I’m learning about me.

I’m getting there.

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Hitting a Wall

July 12, 2013 · 8 comments

therapywallpic

Hit a bit of a wall today.

Conflict scares me, and while I can feel those feelings (red shapes) I don’t wanna look over the wall to remember the actual memories/events that these were. All the while my therapist (brown star of David) is nudging me over saying “go on, take a peek!” while the other B part of me pull back “nooooo! Don’t do it!”

So. Yes.

That was today’s story.

(though perhaps the red scary feelings should be between me and the wall? Or reinforcing the wall somehow?)

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Yesterday’s session was intense.

(No wonder I needed 14hours sleep)

Sitting with my emotions for close to an hour.

The occasional distraction, but mostly there with them.

The sick feelings that come at times of fear.

Body tensed up, shallow breathing. Tight. Crushed.

Talking through the thoughts that go with those feelings.

And my frustration with myself of not being able to call on good feelings.

Being able to list good things that have happened, but wondering why I can’t recall those feelings.

Did I not pay enough attention to them when they first happened?

Like an ADD kid testing poorly on memory, because he didn’t pay attention in the first place, so he has no way of recalling that string of numbers.

Not putting enough weight on the good feelings

Either when they happen or later when trying to use them as evidence against my own negativity.

A long hour with no escape but a few distractions.

And, while this may sound glib, I didn’t die, and I was surprised.

Part of learning to accept emotions. To be able to accept that emotions and feelings are just that and okay, that just because I have all of those anxiety feelings like not being able to breathe, or feeling like I’m going to throw up on your shoes, I’m probably not going to die from it, and I don’t have to resort to my more extreme distraction techniques.

The ones that I’m embarrassed by.

Too much thinking.

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Directed at myself in anger.

Why can’t you just … Speak you mind?
Why can’t you just … Hold it together?
Why can’t you just … See things for what they are?
Why can’t you just … Stop overreacting?
Why can’t you just … Take care of yourself?
Why can’t you just … Be happy for your achievements?
Why can’t you just … Snap out of it?
Why can’t you just … Know what you’re meant to do?

How you’re meant to be.
Who you’re meant to be.
How to work in this world.

Such anger in how I say it to myself. Out aloud but to myself in my session.

Speaking of how I just want to give myself a good shake.

And wake up to myself.

Wishing I could go back in time and give my six and sixteen year old selves the same shake.

Before it becomes too entrenched.

In theory I know what to do,

But why can’t I just do it?

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[3:13:37 PM] Fiona Moore: Today the theme seemed to be ways I wanna be perfect but feel that I am doomed to failure
[3:18:31 PM] Fiona Moore: \o/
[3:19:46 PM] Fiona Moore: Scrap wanna. Need to ve perfect. Feeel compelled :/

it would be one thing if that simply applied to one area of life – say just work, or fitness, or organising my cd collection. But when it spans all those things and more, spills into controlling how you form, maintain, and freak out about all relationships, it starts to be a little bit of a problem.

When you breathe a sigh of relief after a breakup, not because you’re not frantically missing that person and their role in your life, but because that’s one role you don’t have to play and get right for awhile. That doesn’t place pressure on your every move, your every word.

There are so many other roles swirling around, begging to be perfected, friend, sister, daughter, playmate, employee, flatmate, colleague, speechie.

No wonder I feel paralysed.

Maybe it would help if I just knew who Fiona was first.

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Protected: Four.

May 4, 2013 · 4 comments

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Protected: Two

April 24, 2013 · 3 comments

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