I want to be strong. I want to feel better or feel nothing, either of those will do.
I’m not a drinker so I don’t drink. I feel every second of this. It burns me it tears me to pieces on the inside.
But it didn’t kill me. I survived that brutal therapy termination hell bullshit and abandonment. I made it past the first year and I’m here in the second year doing all of the things.
But I barely eat and rarely sleep now. My food is hate, my sleep isn’t refreshing and my brain wants me to fight constantly but there’s nothing to fight.
I can’t fight a guy who ran away and left me to die. I’m not John Wick. I don’t get to get revenge because that’s not how this world works. There’s just pain and more pain without resolution and with only brief respite.
I’m supposed to be happy to be alive. I think I’m grateful, but I can’t tell. I think of a bridge because I can’t swim and I think of a cliff’s edge because I can’t fly, and I think of how it once felt to not have this pain as my companion. I could have that again.
“At the end of this session,” he said, “we’re going to find you a new therapist.”
He was as good as his word. He found me this therapist named Pain. Pain has promised to never leave me, unlike my ex-therapist, but I don’t like this therapy. I want it to stop.
I think I’ve done everything good and healthy that I can do to try to feel better. Now I’m only left with the bad things to try.