Making Space for Anger

One of the key things my therapist and I spoke about during our phone conversation Wednesday night was emotions. I told her I felt like I had trapped a bunch of difficult emotion within myself, specifically in my chest, because there didn’t seem to be a safe place to discharge them.

I was admittedly upset with her for leaving me in the waiting room for fifteen minutes. I wasn’t able to identify exactly what I was experiencing emotionally, but I knew there was a lot of energy built up. It felt hard to even breathe.

I didn’t want to go to Friday’s session. I considered bailing, but I’d had a difficult day at clinic (unrelated to the actual internship, more about food stuff) and I needed a place to process it. I decided while walking over to my therapist’s office that I would use my hour in session to talk about all of that nonsense.

Which I did. I opened the session by telling her I’d had a difficult day and then started to explain what had been happening. I was telling a story about my colleague who’d lost some weight and was passing around her before/after success story photos that were featured on a prominent website recently.

While everyone was reacting with the obligatory, “Wow you look so great!” comments, my classmate encouraged me to share about my own weight loss. She met me last year, about two months after my relapse so she’s watched my lose a pretty good amount of weight. She doesn’t know it’s due to restricting and disordered behavior, so I know she was just trying to be kind.

I told my therapist that I shared my weight loss with my colleagues. She asked me what number I gave them. I said I didn’t want to tell her that. She asked if I told the truth and I said yes. Then she asked me why I wouldn’t tell her what I’d told them.

“Because I don’t want to.”

Not Cool

A few weeks ago we changed our Friday morning sessions to Thursday afternoons. This all had to do with school nonsense and Andi told the therapist we’d only need to change days for the month of May.

But then the schedule for finals changed and they added an extra open lab so we can’t do Friday morning session this week, either. Andi left a voicemail with the therapist to explain this and said, “So if Thursday afternoon still works, I’ll just see you then. If not, please call me back so we can figure something else out.”

She called back. I answered. She said Thursday afternoon was fine and that “…actually, Thursday afternoon is going to have to be fine for a little longer. But we can talk about that more in person.”

I just said, “Um okay… Bye.”

Wtf? Not cool.

I know I’m a fairly volatile person with a low threshold for almost any emotion whatsoever, so I’m sure this is not even something to be pissed about, but still. I’m pissed.

When Things Get Worse

*Trigger warning for mild talk of self-inury.

Today has been…interesting.

I had class this morning, where I found out I got a 97 on my Kinesiology practical (yay!). I also got another grade yesterday (95), so now I’m just waiting on the third. Hopefully I’ll get that grade tomorrow and hopefully it will be within the same ballpark as the others.

Class went well. Fun stuff to learn and practice. Then I had to tutor for an hour, so my friend came and hung out with me so we could study together for Thursday’s exam.

Then…therapy.

I don’t remember getting there. I don’t remember leaving. I do, however, remember “coming to” at what was clearly a distressing moment near the end of session. I can  recall about 3-4 minutes of time, but the rest is a blurry mess.

I didn’t get home from therapy until much later than I normally would and when I realized I was home (and in my body again), I also realized there were new cuts on my left thigh.

Fuck.

Reblog: March 1st is Self-Harm Awareness Day