Old wounds

Therapy has been going really well – I know I’m seriously lucky to have found such a good therapist after Dr T retired. Most recently she has asked me to draw out a timeline of my ‘life story’, and for now we’re spending each session talking through the different portions of it. (That makes my life sound really intricate and interesting, which it really isn’t).

The problem is it hurts. As in, it really hurts. Yesterday we talked about the first few months of my mental-health-decline, and despite thinking I was cool and detached from it all, I came out of the session on the verge of tears, feeling weighed down by a tonne of imaginary bricks. If we keep going, I’m scared of how much worse it can get – the worst years of my depression were absolutely horrible. For the most part I’ve blocked it all out – I found writing the timeline really difficult because I’ve lost track of what happened when – but now that it is on paper and we’re talking through it I can’t avoid it.

I’m not complaining. Not really. As much as it hurts, I have a sense that it’s healthy – that I need to process it properly, and I can’t do that by shutting the pain away. Maybe writing this post is me mentally steeling myself up for what’s to come. It’s taken me 48 hours to shift the blue mood I developed in the therapy session – it’s a shame it has to spill out into day-to-day life like that.

I’ve never cried in therapy, and I swore six years ago that I never would. As much as it scares me, I think I may have to face breaking that in the weeks to come.



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