Therapy is still happening. I’m not sure why I haven’t written about it much lately. A while ago I was in the habit of writing something after every session; it felt like an important part of processing the work.

Time has been a contributing factor. Before my friend moved out a week or so ago, he was home a lot. I didn’t get those windows of solitude after my sessions with J. I came home to being sociable. That was probably good and bad.

Today I am trying to write because, once again, I am totally stuck in therapy . Even though I’m having three sessions per week, I still feel like I’m just circling the drain. I’ve drilled into myself this concrete message that I can’t be helped, and I am stubbornly clinging to that belief.

I read a thought-provoking post today about being the victim in the drama triangle. The full piece is over at Mental Health Today if you’re interested. In particular, I identified with this passage:

A Starting Gate Victim (SGV) has accepted a definition of themselves that says they are intrinsically damaged and incapable. SGV’s project an attitude of being weak, fragile, or not smart enough; basically, “I can’t do it by myself.” Their greatest fear is they won’t make it. That anxiety forces them to be always on the lookout for someone stronger or more capable to take care of them.

These lines summarise succinctly how I feel. I feel so broken, so beyond repair, that I firmly believe I am not capable of saving myself. Today, all I could say to J was that I don’t want to be an adult anymore. I want to drop everything I am responsible for, ignore all those pressures, and just be taken care of. I want the simplicity of childhood; in that most problems are fixed with a cuddle and forgotten about a few moments later.

At the same time, I can’t connect with J. I wonder whether maybe I don’t want to. I can barely even look at her, and the words just don’t materialise when she asks me a question. I’ve also noticed this angry feeling rising and falling in our sessions. I’m not sure what it ties into; but I’ve a hunch I’m angry with her and with all the other ‘helping’ professionals who delve into my life. Because I know, deep down, that they can’t fix anything for me. I have to do that myself and I simply don’t want to.

I can’t force myself into wanting to be whole again. I can’t face everything I’d have to confront in order to get there. So I am left with futility, with feeling sub-human. I feel so very abnormal, because I observe everyone around me doing life, wanting life, and not striving to destroy themselves. I am reminded of my abnormality when I see the scars I’ve left on my own skin. They ensure I know in every moment that I am disturbed, I am ‘intrinsically damaged and incapable’.

Out in the world, I get this sense of being a black and white figure in a colour photograph. I am out of place in my surroundings. I see what normal is and I am not it.