It is Sunday and I try to dampen my good mood.
I know it is fragile,
That the higher I fly, the further I have to fall.
Tomorrow I will be seeing my psychologist, and it is the highlight of my monotonous week.
A week where, most days, I don’t even bother getting dressed.
A week where I get up mid to late afternoon.
A week where everything feels overwhelming and I live in constant dread.
This person, who I can only see for one hour a week and who I actually don’t know a lot about, is the closest I get to human connection.
I never expected therapy to have this effect on me,
But here I am, addicted to that hour like a junkie.
I am starving for attention, care and intimacy
I lick up everything she gives me.
Soon our time is up.
I must leave the safety of her office
And return to my life, if you can even call it a life.
The withdrawal hits me like a train.
I slouch back to my car,
A poor player who has had their time on stage
And then is heard no more.
Sometimes I can’t bring myself to leave
So I hang around.
I lie in the backseat of the car until after dark.
Or I shut myself in the clinic’s bathroom and scratch myself with sharp objects.
Other times I go home and search for my therapist on Facebook
Or I email her the minute I get in the door.
Being obsessed with your therapist is painful, confusing, lonely and a bit humiliating.
But addiction comes in all shapes and sizes.
I only hope that one day I will break free of this,
That I will have a life so that therapy doesn’t BECOME my life.
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