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About r_tyler

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  1. Birth Control

    I feel trapped every time I take my pill. I went because I was scared. I felt a bump that I thought could be cancer. It wasn't. And I got birth control pills out of it. And I'm reminded every day that I either have to go back or have a huge fight with my boyfriend because it will be obvious that I'm refusing to go. If I wasn't on birth control that will run out eventually, he wouldn't even notice. I wish I had refused birth control. I bought it at a price I cannot afford and I feel the weight every day. I watch the days tick by in little blister packs. I have 8 months and 27 days left.
  2. Hey Lolli, I had something similar happen to me a few weeks ago in a place I thought was safe and I remember being caught between being angry with myself that I was downplaying something I shouldn't have to deal with and being angry that I was so upset about something I thought was so small. It's very confusing. I'll sit with you, if that's okay, while you sort your thoughts out. For me, I had a lot of supportive people telling me that it was a big deal and that it's okay to feel angry about it. That helped me a lot. So, from me to you: It is a big deal because you should never have to feel insecure in your own body. You should never have to wonder if or when someone is going to violate your boundaries. That's unacceptable and you have every right to react and feel strongly about it. I'm sorry this happened to you.
  3. One constant source of grief for me is that I have been stripped of the social and linguistic tool that is "I'm sorry." I'm sorry isn't good enough. I grew up hearing that my whole life. My father told me constantly, "Don't apologize, just don't do it again." I understand the sentiment now, as an adult. My parents were good parents. They gave me a lot of wisdom that should have been very helpful. But A lot of my problems stem from the fact that a perfect storm of circumstances coalesced to turn those helpful, instructive things into powerfully damaging concepts. When you tell a child that "sorry isn't good enough," it can be a lesson that flippantly used words are not an acceptable way to right wrongs. But for me, a child who a) took everything to it's apparent logical conclusion and b) had a secret that made me feel intrinsically evil, the logical conclusion if this idea is that the only way to make up for doing something wrong and to attain forgiveness is to be perfect. And a failure to be perfect is a compounding insult to those whom you promised perfection as a means of apologizing. This was reinforced by my protestant Christian upbringing. Christian philosophy, I recognize as an adult, is not inherently evil or damaging. But it compounded damage in me that began elsewhere. The hole in my self worth was not created by my parents or Christianity, but as a path of least resistance, every pressure in my life flowed toward that hole, widening it, eroding the edges like water, breaking me. Christianity confirmed my every belief. "There is none righteous, no not one." "For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God." "For by grace are you saved... not by works, lest any man should boast." I often believe that other people can see me the way I once believed God could see me: as a grotesque collection of the myriad ways I have failed them. But they are human, so when that collection of wrongs against them becomes too great, they will abandon me, and rightfully so. As a result, I am left without any tools with which I can express sincere remorse. I can say "I'm sorry," but the words are meaningless to me, and, in fact, are a mark of shame. To me those words are a cowardly attempt to cover up my sins by making excuses and taking advantage of the charity of forgiveness that I don't deserve. What I want to say is "I'll try to be more perfect," even though I know I will fail. And because I know I will fail, I am a lair, a cheat, a thief of forgiveness. I can neither find absolution in "I'm sorry" nor will I ever be perfect. So instead I must lay under the weight of my life as each wrong adds itself to the pile, and someday, I hope, it will crush me to death as penance. After all, "the wages of sin is death," right?
  4. I hate you

    When can I hate you? Can I hate you in a year when things still aren't any better. Can I hate you in two years when things are just the same. Do I have to wait a decade before I can say, "See? I hate being alive just as much now as I ever did. How much longer do you want me to wait?" Can I hate you at 50, when I know almost certainly that half of my life is gone? Can I hate you at 75 when I am not only depressed, but I'm also decaying? If not, then can I, maybe, possibly be justified in hating you on my deathbed? As I breathe my last miserable breath, am I allowed to finally say I hate you? Will you be sorry for making me live with false and tepid hope through misery and pain, looking for something that would never come, just so you can keep me in a collection on a shelf? Is that what you want? Is that okay? Am I allowed to hate you then?
  5. Why did I fail? (tw su/si)

    I've been searching Pandy's and the Internet at large for clues, maybe even commiseration over why I hate therapy so much. There's not nothing... but I don't understand how so many people seem to be able to talk to a complete stranger about their life. I didn't just hate therapy. Thinking about going, being there and thinking about having been made me want to kill or at least mutilate myself. There are people here who talk about therapy being hard, and about not being able to say much, but they keep going anyway. I couldn't stand going back after five sessions. I couldn't do it. Thinking about it, fearing it, consumed the first half of my week and hating myself for everything I said, almost all of which was innocuous, consumed the second half of my week. I lived in active terror and self-loathing for nine weeks. We had five sessions, she took a week of vacation in the middle, I took a week at the end, and then I skipped a week I returned out of fear before officially calling it over the week after that. I tried. I really really tried. I kept going back even though I wanted to die. I made my feet move into her office even though I would rather have torn my skin off my face. Maybe scratch 'rather', I wanted to do it in conjunction. I compelled myself to vomit out words of some kind because I didn't want to waste her time. I just don't understand why I can't find much of a trace of other people hating therapy this much elsewhere. I don't mean people talking about therapy being hard or scary or whatever, I mean hate, as in, there are few things worse on this planet that I can think of. Now I have a block against trying again. I'd be wasting any therapist's time. I thought about cancelling every time because I was sure that I wouldn't be able to make words come out. And a lot of times I couldn't. I cancelled my session right after I got back from vacation because I knew that I would just sit there and waste her time. Why would I find another therapist? How stupid would that be? So I can go sit on an expensive couch and waste someone's time for an hour? The inevitable question of "why are you here if you don't want to talk?" can only be answered with "well, I guess I shouldn't be." And I can answer that question more effectively by just not going.
  6. Why?

    I'll give therapy one thing: at least when I was going, I had the illusion that I was moving in a forward direct. Now I know everything is at a stand still. I'm at work. Why? Because otherwise I'll get fired. And I care because? Because then I won't have money and that would be harder. Harder to do what? Live. Really, because there are plenty of homeless shelters around here and honestly, I think you'd enjoy that as much as you enjoy your job. Maybe more. It's almost lunchtime, I should eat. Why, you'll just have to do it again tomorrow and you can survive for weeks without eating. I'm an aimless mass of carbon with no rhyme or reason, passing day after day, week after week, year after year. Why? Because I'm waiting in a socially acceptable way until it is socially acceptable to die. Hurry up already.
  7. Sorry. Couldn't do it. Thanks for the comments. It's nice to know someone's out there.
  8. Five and done (tw)

    I cancelled therapy for good yesterday. Five sessions was all I could handle. I feel relief and failure in almost equal measures. I'm definitely more relieved. Therapy felt like slow and gentle emotional rape. It's for your own good, they said. Just take off your defenses and let it happen, they said. Relax, it's your choice to be here, they said. You can stop it whenever you want, they said. That's a false choice if I ever heard one, telling me I don't have to undress my soul and let someone touch me while holding the loaded gun of my life to my head. There's no choice there. Well, almost none. Between the hell of therapy and the hell of living as I am, it took me five sessions to decide which was worse. Therapy is supposed to give you skills to deal with life. I need therapy to gain skills to deal with therapy, apparently. I might not be done forever, but I'm done for now and I'm done with her.
  9. Therapy is like a bad comedy sketch

    I have no idea what my T thinks is useful about what we are doing. I feel worse when I talk to her and frustrated about the whole thing. To be clear, it's just went to the fifth session, so maybe I am prematurely frustrated. Me: I feel like my emotions aren't reflections of reality and that they are giving me false input. I feel like I can't trust them. T: You know, it sounds like maybe your emotions are giving you wrong information. Me: ............... I sounds like I'm talking to a parrot, and it sounds like my T thinks that repeating things back to me is the solution to the problem. It sounds like she thinks she's giving original insights. What's worse, my boyfriend does the same thing. I told him Thing A today that has Solution B but that I hate Solution B because it takes so much energy. And he told me right back, as though it were a unique and novel insight, you know, it sounds like you are doing Thing A and you know what might help? You could try Solution B. I feel like I could totally substitute talking to both of them with recording my own voice and playing it back to myself. Is that seriously a therapeutic tactic? I feel totally nuts and really frustrated. And I know it just sounds like I am being difficult. I can tell my T and my boyfriend the problem I am encountering, why I am encountering it, what should work to fix it and why that doesn't work. And then they parrot everything back to me sans the "why it doesn't work" and appear to be pleased with their aka MY assessment. Am I speaking in tongues?
  10. Actually, it's tomorrow.
  11. I can't go back

    I technically have a third T appointment on Wednesday but I think I am going to cancel them forever. I can't go. I can't talk to her. I have nothing too say. I don't like her. I don't trust her. I can't go back. I will never be able to talk to her. When I went the first time, my BF said that if I didn't like it I didn't have to go. I don't like it, but he still wants me to go. Of course I didn't like it. What was he expecting? Everyone says I don't have to do anything if I don't want to. Well I don't want to. Did they expect anything different? I will never want to. Maybe want isn't what they mean. I already surpassed all the original terms of encouragement. Just try it once. If you don't want to you don't have to go back. If you don't like her you don't have to see her. How many times do I have to go before I can reasonably decide that I can't do it?
  12. Letter to my T (tw)

    TW for religion as emotional abuse. I think I finally pinpointed a metaphor for why I feel so uncomfortable in therapy or what I am worried about. I might give this to my T but we'll see. My earliest memories of life date back to before I was five. I know this because we moved on my fifth birthday and I remember a good many things from before that. The thing I remember the clearest is of trying desperately to fight my inner daemon, trying desperately to be good. I was born an evil child: mean, angry, hateful with a desire to hurt things. I felt it in my bones from my earliest memories to this very day. I remember trying so hard to be good. I also remember my father telling me that no matter what I did, I would never be capable of being good. My father told me I was bad and evil to the core and I believed him because I felt it. He could see inside my brain and knew when I was being bad on the inside, and he was disgusted. He barely tolerated my existence. But I loved my father and he liked it when I told him so. So I did, every day, at the same time as I was grovelling for his forgiveness. Most of the time this was received in cold indifferent silence, but sometimes, for a few seconds, I felt like he loved me even though I was so very very bad. My father was God, the protestant Christian god, and he was as real to me as my flesh and blood father, from the time I have memories to sometime around my freshman year of high school. My father demanded that I love him. He told me that he was the only good thing about me. He told me that I had to be perfect, but that I never could be. He told me that I was evil and dirty and disgusting at my very core, by my very nature. He told me that the price of his love for me was the torture and death of a good man, a man so much better than I could ever be, so I better make it count, even though I would never be able to. He demanded that everyone I know love him too. He threatened to torture and kill everyone I loved if I couldn't persuade them to love him. He told me he was in control of everything and that I could never escape from him. My response was to love him more for it to the point where whenever I got sick or hurt, I would think, my father must have done this because I deserve to be hurt, I should ask for his forgiveness. And sometimes, sometimes, he seemed to grant his mercy. Sometimes, if I sang loud enough in church with enough adoration in my heart I would feel his touch, as warm and real as my own mother's embrace. Until he returned to his silent, cold, disgusted regard of me as I exited the church into the street and reverted back to the only thing I ever could be: dirty, evil, disappointing. I feel stupid and crazy for describing god like an abusive parent. Plenty of other people are raise in religion, manage to interpret it in a moderate and reasonable way and grow up to be fine, well adjusted humans. I don't pass blame or make excuses for my behavior. I will admit to two reasons only for why this information is relevant, both of which should be taken as mere statements of fact. 1) I don't know nor do i care what your religious persuasions are, but if you ever bring them up, I will leave and I will not come back. 2) I am very sensitive about not being perfect. I panic about making mistakes. I can't read that anxiety book for more than a few paragraphs without feeling like I'm being berated for being so stupid for doing everything wrong my whole life. I also don't trust you to be any different. I don't have a high threshold of tolerance for this feeling. I escaped once and I'm not going back.
  13. Thanks for the feedback. I really appreciate it. I made my T a really badly drawn comic strip today because I don't even have good words, just half metaphors. I don't know if I can give it to her though. I'm also having trouble living between sessions. I did this last week too, but I feel like I just drift in stasis between the time I talk to her and the time I have to talk to her next because I worry about it constantly. I dont know if that even makes sense. She's on vacation for a week so I wont see her for two, so maybe the feeling will go away. It's good to know that other people don't jump into T right away too. Sort of. I don't want to do this for months, but at least I'm not weird. My T seemed confused that I was even more nervous the second session, like it was weird. She said that usually means that something didn't go well the first session, but I thought it was okay-ish. Anyway, thank you both for reading.
  14. 2nd therapy appointment. disaster.

    I went to therapy yesterday for the second time even though I didn't think I could go back and now I really think I can't go back. Therapy is not a safe place. It is an awful place. I can't talk. I can't breath. I can't hide. She didn't even ask anything remotely difficult. I just didn't know what to say. The mere fact of focus on me is too much. I hoped that bringing my boyfriend would deflect some of that feeling, but it hasn't. She said the first couple of appointments can be really hard. All of my answers are wrong and weird an not what she expected. Maybe she thinks I am making the depression and anxiety up. She doesn't get right anything i say and i can't explain it to her, even when I manage to speak. She assigned me a book that seems to me to just say, 'get over it.' My boyfriend got frustrated with me that I shut down after. He's very active and doesn't like to lie around a lot. I didn't know what I wanted to do, except nothing. I'm dragging him down with me.I want to break up with him so I don't have to worry about that. And so no one will tell me I should go to therapy. I think I'll just stay in bed tonight and read the anxiety book. It just says, 'stop being anxious, idiot!' But I am stupid. So what's the harm in letting it tell me that too? I can't feel worse. And if I can, so what?