The end of therapy. The end of my life. I feel these endings rushing towards me and I am possessed of a terrible urgency that is almost paralysing.

I am 43 years old. My father is 86. I am half his age; I am, if I am as lucky as he has been with his physical health, nearly halfway through my life, and I can’t count on that, I have quite possibly much less time left. And all I have done so far is survive. I cannot point to any achievements, I know I have not used my intelligence or my creative talents. I have no relationship, no meaningful work, and not even a handful of friends. The last ten years have seen me hospitalised multiple times for suicidal depression and psychosis. I want the future to be different, and I am desperately scared it will be the same. At the moment I am hatching plans for change, I am feeling fired up, ready to plunge in and do at last some of the things I have always wanted to do. Yet I can’t help but be aware that I have hatched plans many times before and they have come to nothing, I have ended up in the same place of coldness and aloneness and despair.

This, of course, is where therapy comes in. I still haven’t decided what role medication plays in my life, and I’m still currently not taking it, which is almost certainly foolish, but I’m pretty sure medication won’t heal my persistent sense of shame and my sense that I am repulsive both physically and mentally, and that no one could even like me, let alone love me, if they really knew me. But therapy is time limited: I started last September and my psychologist said it would last about a year; we are rapidly approaching June. I feel I haven’t talked yet about anything important, and the pressure and anxiety of the time limit makes it feel impossible to talk about anything at all.

Recently   I came up with a solution: I will use the money I am no longer spending on smoking, having switched almost entirely to vaping, to fund private therapy. At first I thought I would find someone when my psychologist discharged me, the last few days the idea has built that I will start with someone new as soon as possible, and tell my psychologist I no longer want to see her. Rejecting her, I guess, before she can reject me. Because part of me hopes desperately that she will really see me, see what I  need, and care, and extend the therapy, and another part of me keeps pointing out that I can’t expect this, and trying to prepare myself for the pain of my appointments ending before I’m ready, and being left to face my life alone, without anything healed or resolved.

What I should do, what would be the grown up thing to do, would be to talk to my psychologist about this situation. But I don’t know if I can do that, I am not grown up when it comes to her, in fact, and even though she is younger than me, which only adds to the shame of it, I am deeply envious of her child/children. Part of me wants to climb on her lap and be comforted. The rest of me knows this isn’t rational and isn’t possible. Our appointments seem to have gone down to fortnightly again, and I cannot raise it and ask to see her weekly once more, because of my feeling that I have already been too demanding, because of the fear of the pain I will feel when/if she says no.

For now I drink alcohol, and I try to remember the last night I *didn’t* drink alcohol, and I do other things I can’t even admit here, which I know are probably self-destructive, and yet I can’t stop, and I wonder if there are any solutions, I ask if change is possible, and I realise that although I have often longed for death I am terrified of it, and the terror makes me determined to fully LIVE, to move past my grief at my wasted life and embrace opportunities and learn how to love and be loved. And at the same time I don’t know if I have the strength and I think of a future the same as the past and it makes me want to euthanise myself, and I am aware that I have that option now, being free from hospital, I could do that, and yet parts of me want to live so passionately – and oh, I’m confused, and I don’t know what to do.

So I end this post, without conclusions, without decisions, wondering why I expose myself on my blog this way and yet unable to bear keeping this all inside, because I kept myself silent and isolated for years, burdened with secrets I did not think I could share, AND WANT SOMETHING DIFFERENT. Is it possible? I don’t know, I don’t know, but I hope so. Please tell me it is.

 

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