Again, a longish absence from the world of venting my spleen, revealing my soul, call it what you will. Again, too, no emergency, crisis of confidence, or any drama, whether real or perceived, in my life.
Strange as it may seem, it’s been an ordinary existence. Nothing especially warming going on, simply plodding on. Work has been good, getting me into a rhythm of daily living, leaving less time to damage myself with those dark thoughts, and occasionally actions.
There’s still reminisces about my ex, who I still miss. Perhaps not as dreadfully as before, although I still have bad days and nights, when it seems losing her is unbearable. They are far less commonplace, though, and the memories are becoming warmer, looking back at happy days out and times together. A broken heart, still, but mending.
It’s also reached a stage, at least at the moment, where I don’t think I can talk here with any great knowledge or experience of mental health issues any more than I have done, so I don’t. I’ve shared my experiences so far. Any more would be waffling and pointless conjecture. Which I’ll leave to the Scottish independence debate.
There is still, however, a big problem facing me, and I so, so need help. Between the sheets, there is that mental block. Why does it happen? Everything in my body physically at the time of intimacy is extremely aroused and clearly wanting to become far more intimate. Yet, there once more, is that voice in my mind, stopping me. No means no, even when I so want it to be yes.
The paradox in my mind and body is duplicated by the weather. Not quite hot enough to show my legs off, but still, looking outside, mild enough to wear a short sleeved top. As soon as one foot stepped in front of the other, though, the heavens opened. I was a drowned rat by the time I took my seat in the grimy, low ceiling reception.
Anne was her usual self, despite her own troubles in making it to the poky little cupboard masquerading as a therapy room. Upbeat and perky, which is a natural trait for her, without a doubt. I’ve been around enough therapists to know which ones are genuine in their positive warmth and which ones are reverting to a ‘professional cheerleader’ mode.
Yet again, that ‘scores of the doors’ form so everyone can see just how stressed, anxious, depressed and suicidal I am. I have to tell the truth on these forms – but what you see on the form really doesn’t translate to how you’re feeling.
For example, I still have the odd all nighter, staying up for no reason other than not being able to get to sleep. Yet they are far, far fewer than before. On the form, however, the option flips straight from ‘no days’ to ‘several days’ when you tick how often you have sleeping problems in the past fortnight. No box for just one day. It skews the truth incredibly.
So yes, I’ve been worrying too much, sleeping poorly, and had suicidal thoughts for ‘several days’ in the past fortnight, according to their forms. They were the only boxes I could tick though. It’s an odd and clearly misleading anomaly.
It’s skirting around the issue though. Despite the down to earth empathy and insight, at times, of Anne, it was a tough session. You can always tell when I’m uncomfortable when talking about an issue. I steer conversation away to such a tangent that it becomes completely irrelevant from the subject matter, by which time I hope that’s forgotten.
Today, the conversation was steered so far away from arousal that it became an exchange of tips for keeping food that bit fresher. I was pleased to find out that putting a tissue between cellophane and mushrooms stops them getting damp. Don’t say you never learn anything new from me. Despite my diversionary tactics, however, there was no room for manoeuvre and those piercing eyes looking into my soul.
Anne, well anyone really, could see right through what I was doing. Questions were asked, confidence given, about how I perceive my body, and where my ultra low self esteem originated. Anne ventured that perhaps in my subconscious, when I find someone really attractive, that I feel I don’t deserve them in some way. I thought long and hard, squirming internally. Nail on head though. Every partner I’ve had at some point I believed was out of my league.
Usually I say the session ends all too soon but it couldn’t come quickly enough. Especially when asked to do something at home. This time is to think of something that gives me arousal but without going any further, to hold that arousal, then let it fade. To be fair, that may not be too difficult. I often think of Sharon Stone but fall asleep or lose the thought before any arousal turns into something more. No sex please, we can’t be bothered.
So came the return home, which couldn’t come quickly enough. Which of course is another paradox because Anne really is someone you can really enjoy being around. This is hard though. She’s actually getting to the root of my problems and the truth feels distinctly uncomfortable.
I simply don’t love myself in any form. Which is a pity because I truly am worthy of being loved. Especially as I now know how to store a mushroom. Hopefully, though, that’s not the only thing Anne can help me with. I hope, at least.
Because if this doesn’t work, there really is no room for manoeuvre.