Dr B this morning. Seems half a life away. What did I talk to him about? My fear of losing myself if I let myself read books. My failure to go to yoga. How everything has felt a bit much lately. How I’m scared that if I’m myself people won’t like me. Twitter. How I need it, how sometimes I get glued to it in a way that doesn’t feel healthy.

It was quite a short session (he’s a Lacanian psychoanalyst so uses variable length sessions). He said he didn’t want our conversations to be another thing that is too much.

I need to stop seeing him but he fulfills a need for *someone*. And I’ve always had trouble saying no, or enough, or I don’t want this anymore to men.

Then my psychologist this afternoon. Struggled with the bus journey there (I’ve got some increasing paranoia/reluctance to go out going on). I wasn’t sure what would happen. I’d thought Anna might turn up again, and I was aware of her in the background, (well, to be more accurate, off to the left hand side) but it was mostly me.

My psychologist asked about Suffolk, but I can’t really remember Suffolk right now. She talked a bit about what had happened last time we met. She talked a lot about how all the different selves had different strengths and functions and probably held different memories and could we work as a team, with me as a coordinator. She suggested using a notebook as a kind of communications log.

I felt worse and worse throughout the session and I don’t even know why. I told her I felt crazy. She said I wasn’t crazy, and I wasn’t alone, lots of people had issues with voices and with feeling like different selves. I said I couldn’t deal with it. She asked what helped me deal with it. I said alcohol and lorazepam and laughed and she kind of laughed too and said “go for it” (I’ve taken this as permission). She suggested I try some of the self soothing suggestions using my different senses, she said she knew it was boring. I couldn’t explain to her that I’m not in a place where I can do such things right now, that I seemed during the session to have switched into suicidal self destructive mode, so that I was sat there half listening to her talk and half thinking about buying some painkillers on the way home and taking a fatal dose (don’t worry, I haven’t). She said she didn’t want to make me feel worse, she said she thought I dealt with everything I had going on, and I had a lot going on, brilliantly, amazingly and I should feel proud, but she suspected I hadn’t heard her say that, I had just heard “La la la” or something ruder. I did hear her – but I don’t believe a word of it.

I  nearly phoned my CPN when I came out, but it was late, and she finishes at 4, and I was so positive and cheery and talking about taking art classes when I saw her on Tuesday that I didn’t want to let her down by telling her I’m struggling *again*. Besides, I’m sure I’ll cope. This is fall out from going to Suffolk hitting me, this is fall out from therapy last time. This is because talking about my other selves to my psychologist makes it real, makes it harder to deny. I don’t want to see her, I want to deny it. And yet I also have all the sadness of having to wait a fortnight to see her again. Right now, my head is fucked.

 

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