I had a bad therapy session today. I walked out on my therapist (my T) after only 20 minutes. Well…I guess I didn’t “walk out,” more like asked to leave and was granted permission. As if I am stuck there; I’m the one paying the co-pay after all. She gets paid if I leave after 5 minutes or if I don’t talk just the same as if I spend the time being productive. Crying and being vulnerable and shit.
There was a man in the waiting room, a fat man dressed like he’d just come in from mowing the lawn. As I stood in line to check in, I kept glancing toward the larger part of the waiting room and every time my eyes drifted over him, he was staring at me. Just sitting there, arms and fat farmer-tanned legs crossed, creepily staring at me. I was mildly annoyed as I sat down to wait for my name to be called. What the hell, I was already annoyed while driving to my appointment. I suppose, if I dig to the root of it (wouldn’t my T be proud?), I could attribute the feeling not to annoyance but to anxiety. I had planned on going out for happy hour with the meet-up group I joined two years ago, and I was anxious over seeing these people who are still only casual acquaintances, who really don’t give two shits about me. Not like I have other friends though. I didn’t end up going out, incidentally. I fell asleep instead. Not surprising; I’ve been bailing out on social commitments for the last two or three months. It’s beginning to be pathological.
Anyway, back to the original story. As I left the office, twenty minutes after I’d arrived and feeling that restless frustrated anxious feeling like a wad of paper being crumpled inside of me somewhere in the vicinity of my diaphragm making it tough to take a full breath–annnd breathe–I again saw the fat man. I guess he was waiting for a kid or a spouse. In any case, he wasn’t there to have his head shrunk. There he was: same pose, same stare. I backed against the wall next to the tall plant hoping to sever the invisible beam coming from his creepy face to poke it's slimy, invisible finger into my shoulder, but it didn’t work. I felt the paper crumple tighter as I turned and widened my eyes at him, making that “don’t look at me” gesture that all fifth graders know well. “Stop fucking staring at me. Jesus Christ,” I muttered under my breath, sure he was able to clearly read the words on my lips. As I walked out, right by is stupid legs, I muttered, “Creep.”
Whatever. I was in a bad spot. I was pissed off and tired and anxious and my fucking psychiatrist (PDoc) won’t give me more than four Klonopin a month because she thinks I’m a suicide risk. Whatever; I was having a bad day. Right? That still didn’t stop me from feeling like a total dick as soon as I sat in the car and turned the key in the ignition. I’m a dick and that’s why I have no friends.
Thus is the nature of my pathology.