Therapy

I lie to my therapist. I don't mean to, but it just...happens. They're not big lies, nothing fancy or grand. It's little stuff. "How has your week been?" she'll ask. My mind immediately answers, "Terrible. Awful. I hate this so much and I want to give up already." My mouth answers instead, "Oh, you know, not too bad." What?! Mouth, what are you saying? We were miserable all week. Our entire existence was a funk of nothingness for 7 days, tell her it was the absolute worst!

"Started yoga, so that's helping a little." Mouth, I should slap you. "I've had a few bad spells but I think things are getting better." You traitor. You're not my mouth anymore, I'm disowning you. You're the stranger that lives on my face and lies.

Except, I can't blame my mouth. Not really. Really, it's that part of me that wants so badly to please people that I see in positions of power over me - teachers, bosses, etc. Not that a therapist is supposed to be in a position of power over me per se, but she is an esteemed person. She has degrees and licenses. Plus, if you met her, she's just the sweetest, nicest person. I don't want to let her down. She wants to help me so bad, you can just tell. You can tell she is doing this job because she sees people in pain and she wants to help. Who am I to let her down?

Plus, no one likes a Negative Nancy. It's hard to respond to someone telling you about focusing on the positive and being mindful of the present instead of worrying about the past or future with something like, "Yeah, well, there doesn't seem to be a lot of positive in my life and my present sucks so focusing on it doesn't help me." Yeesh, I shudder just to think of it - that person doesn't want help. They just want to wallow in their pity.

So I nod along. Of course I'm going to stay positive. Of course I'm going to stop worrying about how this is affecting my work because it's not me that's messing up at work, it's the bipolar disorder and the meds that are messing up at work. Of course I understand the difference. Of course I'm going to stop feeling hot shame burst over my head and course down my body when I even think of work and how I'm failing and failing is unacceptable. Of course I'm going to focus on the positive aspects of my life. Of course I'm going to stop worrying that I'm barren until it's been awhile and I give my body a chance to work. Of course I'm going to stop being terrified that I can't conceive and I'll never have children. Of course I'm feeling optimistic for the future. Of course I'm not concerned that I'll be a terrible mother and make my children wish they were never born. Of course I trust that we'll figure out the drugs before then. Of course I trust that we'll figure out the drugs soon. Of course.

And I do believe it. For a minute. For 45 of them, actually. Maybe even for a few minutes after I leave the office. But as I step into the elevator I start to forget the "of courses". I start to remember how bad I feel and I start to curse myself for being unable to talk it through with the therapist. Next time, I think, next time I'll be honest. Next time I'll tell her the truth. And I really do mean to, I swear. Until she comes into the waiting room to get me with that bright smile on her face and says, "Hi! Come on back!"

I think it comes from not really being able to believe that therapy can help. What can someone say that can counteract what chemicals are doing to my body? I know my fears are irrational. I know my depression is unfounded. That doesn't stop it, though. I can hear all of the rational logic in the world but when the depression hits, it won't matter.

And I can't tell her I think of suicide. I feel such a failure having to admit that. It's like I failed psychiatry and therapy all in one. Yeah, I know it's a byproduct of bipolar disorder. I know that certain medications can make those thoughts worse and I'm supposed to immediately tell my doctor about them. I know that. I'm not stupid. I'm just ashamed. And scared. I don't want her to look at me differently. I don't want to be committed for suicidal thoughts. I don't want people to know about my stupid, self-pitying, overly-dramatic thoughts on suicide. It's embarrassing. Gods above, it's like being back in 5th grade and being terrified people would find out I wet the bed. It is just not something you want broadcasted to the world.

Plus, my therapist thinks I'm doing so much better. I can't have her find out I've been lying. She'll be so disappointed in me if she knows I'm a liar. Did I mention I don't like disappointing people? I like to be the star pupil. I like to be the employee of the month. I like to be the best psych patient they've ever seen. I feel ashamed every time a medication doesn't work out, mad at my body for not cooperating. Okay, so maybe I've got some issues to work out with pleasing people - that's what happens when you grew up with parents who were emotionally damaged in their own ways and didn't always know how to show their love. Maybe I should talk to my therapist about that…