|NeedsI was thinking today about how tough I was on the therapists I saw as a young adult. My first contact with a therapist was after a foiled suicide attempt. That therapist saved my life and actually bent the rules to keep seeing me for longer than the six months that was the stint of the usual clinic setting. He helped me to sort out things. Of course I was rather conflicted and by that time (age 18) I was into the occult and witchcraft. Therapists tend to take a dim view of that subject in those days, so they wanted to make sure I wasn’t really losing touch with reality. I remember being the center of a group of therapists assessing my mental state. Not so great being in the hot seat.
Medication did not do well with me either, I remember once being given an antidepresant which caused me to lose facial muscle control. So I gave up on medicine, but that was after I had collected a stockpile of sleeping pills and antidepressants to replace the draino of my suicide stash.
Because seeing doctors in a clinic setting meant that the relationship was short-lived, I became adept at telling my story in a sort of dah, dah, dah, dah fashion. Had it down to a one session, but no emotion attached. At that time there was never any emotion attached to any statements I made to them. I had learned early on that showing emotions meant that my life would be lost, I had many beatings to drum that lesson into me. I did not dare let one emotion slip. So I told the tale, which at that time was rather sparser than what I know now, so many memories were buried and I wasn’t digging there, no way, no how. So it was rather clincial. The doctors seemed more interesting in medicating me and keeping me from killing myself. But not much change occurred.
I remember one time when I also had to sit through a group therapy session (my first and last) and I was stuck next to a woman who was the epitome of my mother and sister, and pushed me so deeply down inside that I didn’t surface for air for a long time. Never went back to group therapy period.
As I got older and went through more of the therapists, I finally divorced my husband (the one who is now dead) and got a job on my own. I was then able to afford a therapist that I could keep seeing not through a clinic. I was so needy with this therapist that I ran him through the wringer. I don’t know where he is now, but if I did, I would apologize. He could do nothing to please the neediness inside. He didn’t say the right words, ask the right questions, or respond in ways that would fulfill the gaping needs inside.
Of course, needy as I was, I wanted him to do this instinctively and saw it as tremendously uncaring that he did not respond the way I wanted him to. I was very suicidal at the time, so often had panic phone calls with him, and I guess he tried hard to appease me, but probably was as baffled by my behavior and frustrated as I was with his. It also didn’t help that he was seeing my roommate as a patient as well. The best thing he did was to encourage me to write things, and I began journalling, a thing I am doing again through Xanga and also I wrote an autobiography. It was pretty good, but at the time I wrote it there were many tell-all autobiographies about sexual abuse. I sent it off and got two personal letters from editors and one from an author, but the market wasn’t there. Right now the book is sitting in my pastor’s office. He does not want me to have it back because of all the pain inside, but wants me to re-write it to reflect how to spiritually handle what one went through. Not ready to do that yet.
The last therapist I had was more in control of the therapy situation, in that he did not let me take control with emotional games, and I guess we went the furthest. It was there that I uncovered just what went on in my past and was able to see my mother’s role in what happened to me. It was incredibly painful times, and I even cried a few times in his office. Something never before that had happened. By crying I meant a few tears. But inside there was so much conflict. This therapist is the one that I asked if I had kids did he think I would abuse them. He told me no, and he was right. I have not abused my kids. I was fully prepared to have an abortion if he had any thought that I might have abused my kids.
Well marriage and kids put therapy on hold for a long time. But the memories and hurts do not stay buried even though there is business, and the pain, hurt and depression eventually emerged again.
Now I am blessed with a pastor who is also a pastoral counselor and we have really sorted out issues. By no means am I near the end of the journey, but it is funny how, when God is in the mix, so much more is accomplished.
I guess writing this is because I realize that I treat God pretty much like I treated my therapists. I tend to not let him hear my real feelings about issues, tend to push the emotions down, not want to draw attention to myself, not share all that I really should share. I want something from God, but don’t know what it is, how to ask him, how to reach out to him and if he reached out to me I would run scared. I hope I am not driving God crazy, but there is so much neediness and I don’t know how to get those needs filled by God or anyone else for that matter. Perhaps the damage is too deep. Perhaps there is no healing possible, perhaps it is as hopeless as I feel.
I wish I knew what to articulate about the needs I had, I guess that would make asking God easier.
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