Thursday, September 11, 2014

Unlocking My Subconscious

I have known that I have bipolar disorder for over a year. Until recently, the only mental health professional I have seen is my psychiatrist. He deals with my medication, not therapy. He has been suggesting that I see a therapist for some time now. 

I struggled with myself. I stalled my efforts with starting therapy because I didn't think that I had many issues to resolve. I believed that I was fine, I did not need to talk to a professional. 


I thought I worked out most of my past experiences in my head; therefore, therapy was set on the back burner. I usually mind-f*ck any negative aspect of my life at the time it is happening, push it into the back recesses of my mind, and move on. I do not deal with my problems; I avoid them by trying not to think about it. Out of sight, out of mind.


I recently decided that it was finally time for therapy. In contrast to seeing a psychiatrist, my visits to the psychologist has been more difficult. Thus far, I have only seen him a few times. Sitting in his office digging deep into my soul is hard work. The problems that I thought were no longer bothering me were brought back into the forefront. An avalanche of repressed feelings fell upon me. Even though I would have loved to unearth my memories with an excavator, I understand that I cannot deal with a lifetime of problems in only a few visits. I will have to dig my way out a shovelful at time. 


I felt vulnerable in front of the doctor. My thoughts turned into a choked-up jumble of words as I tried to express them. I could barely speak as tears flowed down my face during our appointment. All the things from my past that have been festering in my subconscious mind flew out of my mouth. The doctor did not have the time to say much because my longstanding illness of diarrhea of the mouth took over. I spilled my guts. I asked and answered my own questions. The short breaths between my scattered phrases were the only times that the doctor had time to get a word in edgewise. To my dismay, he would inquire specifically about the most distressing aspects of my life. I do not know how he could decipher my most important issues during my incessant rambling. How could he sit there calmly while I was sitting in a puddle of my own tears mumbling incoherently?



Therapy is exhausting! I didn't realize that it would be so hard. When will the healing begin? When will I stop picking at my emotional wounds? When will my scars fade to where I barely notice them at all? And the most important question of all, when will I stop paying someone to make me cry? 

One day I will have the ability to walk out of his office with a smile on my face and not have to go to the bathroom to compose myself before walking out of the building.
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