Therapy aka That Wasted Hour

I am *so* frustrated at the moment.  Why can I not just go into a therapy session and bloody well tell the therapist what’s actually happening in my slightly fragmented brain?  At the session before today’s, the therapist and I discussed my sister’s death, something we definitely need to address before I can go further with healing.  Since then, I’ve dealt with a bit of fallout.  It was wonderful, actually, to talk with someone about my sister.  I loved her dearly.  As I wrote in a previous post, though, it brought up some old scars.  Since I need to deal with those scars, I found it completely impossible to talk about that.

I’m actually a bit confused by the process overall.  Sometimes I think I’m failing therapy, like the therapist is going to give me a failing grade on an exam or something.  I’m just not sure how to tell her how I’ve been feeling.  In many, many ways my life is going better than it has in quite some time.  I have a job, school is going quite well, and I’m able to pay my bills.  My focus is steady, which is horribly unusual, and things are getting accomplished.  That is the brighter side of things.  The darker side is the crap emotions bottled up in me.

Lately I’ve felt explosive.  Talking about my sister’s death brought up emotions that I hadn’t really looked at in quite some time and probably haven’t ever processed.  It brought grief in general into my mind.  Since my immediate family are gone, I have no contact or really knowledge of biological family.  That’s not a pity point in the least.  It’s just a fact of my life.  I’m bringing it up here in terms of obstacles to grief, as the generic psychobabble lingo terms it.  Having multiple losses involving trauma apparently makes loss harder to deal with overall.  Who woulda thought?

Back to my quandary, though.  Therapy seems the ideal place to bring up the feelings I’m having in trying to work through the grief issues.  Naturally, then, I can’t bring myself to say anything at all.  I sat through that entire bleedin’ hour of therapy chattering nervously and attempting to keep the lid down tightly on my emotions.  I almost felt manic.  It really was quite infuriating, and I’m not quite sure how to begin.  Part of me wants to say it all in one breath.  Part of me wants to, without regard to control, give the therapist a true glimpse of my emotions surrounding the losses.  I feel like sobbing and screaming like a mad woman.  That’s not something I’d actually do in a therapist’s office, or anywhere really, but it does give a black-and-white account of how I’m feeling these days.  Life is going great, and I think that’s actually why I *can* feel the grief firsthand.  It’s what to do with those insistent little emotions that confuses me.


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