I have decided to discontinue therapy. I went for a few sessions and walked out early on the third, having nothing new to say. Then I scheduled a forth appointment but wound up canceling it, and after weeks of indecision, I left a message saying I will not be back. That doesn’t mean never—just for now.
After being in therapy on and off since age fifteen, taken a myriad of drugs (legal), and being hospitalized more times than I can count, I basically am at the same place where I began: depressed. This is not a whine, whine, whine post—a “Just-The-Facts” post as Sergeant Joe Friday used to say in Dragnet.
Despite this, I still believe in therapy, medication, and hospitalizations. Somehow they don’t work for me, at least not much. When I was younger there were some insights, but basically nothing I couldn’t have figured out on my own. The most important commodity I received was support, and that in itself is of value, but lately I get enough from a clubhouse, even though I do not talk about my issues. I prefer keeping them to myself. It seems that when I talk about them, I actually feel worse. It’s not denial but avoidance, and apparently there is a place for that. Why do the same old thing when the same old thing hurts?
During a long-ago hospitalization there was a punching bag on the unit. Later I read that such diversions were removed from wards since they just encouraged more agitation among patients; instead of releasing anger they caused a further build up. Maybe I’m going through such a cycle where thinking results in getting caught in a loop without an escape hatch.
Staying busy, whether it’s a diversion or work, is another coping skill I learned along the way. For now it’s the best I can do.