Thursday 15 June 201702:09 pm
Though I’ve been seeing my psychotherapist for almost five years, I still don’t know how to start the session. Her office gives me an unexplainable anxiety. Every pen on her desk, every tiny piece of paper, every thick book, every hand gesture she makes, every look she gives, everything in its right place - like the Radiohead song that also gives me anxiety. I must have the opposite of OCD, I’m more comfortable in chaos than in order, no mystery there I’ve been bathed in chaos since my birth.
As usual, I wait upon her to ask me how I’m doing. While waiting, I, as habit has it, drown in her eyes bigger than planets and find shore at her lips thinner than paper cuts. I love how beautiful she is, it soothes me. It’s incredibly discriminating of me to be more at ease around attractive people. What am I? A Dove commercial? Is it innate to be attracted to beauty or is that a result of universal beauty stereotypes? I hope she talks soon, this train of thought I’m having right now is unnecessary and disturbing. Please speak, I beg of you!
“How have you been lately?”. She asks me this question at the beginning of every session yet I never know what to answer. Should I tell her I’m okay, because truly I have no reason not to be okay? I’m getting fed, high and laid, what more could I ask? Or should I tell her that if I’m not actively deploying all my efforts towards making myself excessively ecstatic, I am severely depressed and angry at everyone? I don’t wanna seem like I’m whining, I know so many people have it so much worse. Is it whining if it’s during a therapy session? I realize now I’m taking too long to answer and these minutes with her cost money.
I decide to finally go with the reassuring answer that I’m doing better. She asks if I’m still binge eating. I nod. She asks if I’m still purging. I nod. She asks if I’m cutting myself. I shake my head and she scribbles something down. She asks if I’m doing well at school, at work and at home. I nod. She sees right through me. She scribbles down some more. “Then what’s better?” she asks almost cynically. Well… I’m here aren’t I? I haven’t killed myself or another person -yet. In my book, that’s progress. I finally end saying that I’m internally feeling better. She scribbles.
I would love nothing more than to read her notes about me. Is my whole biography there? Are there personal opinions she has on me written down? Does she use the word “bulimic”, “promiscuous” or “addict” in there? Does she actually like me? Would she like me more or less if I talked more? Why do I give a damn if my freaking doctor likes me? Why do I always wanna be liked even though I crafted a persona that screams “I don’t give a fuck”? Why do I obsess over Instagram likes, retweets and digital compliments?After this “Fight Club” like monologue you’d expect me to go home and get off all social media and focus on real life… Wrong! I go home and post my best selfie. Unfixable, no matter how many beautiful therapists ask me how I’m doing.