Last night I had a counseling appointment. What could very well be my last one. Ever.
I was already going to take a month or so break, just to settle in to my new job, my new routine. But I had every intention of actually setting up another appointment. I didn’t. The counselor told me he’d keep my spot open for me, but I’m tempted to email him and tell him not to bother.
I had written him a letter last time telling him how much I was hurting. His comment was that my writing is very consistent. (so, I’m consistently hurting, yes?) He wondered why I’ve been on so many SSRI’s with no luck. Or hell any kind of antidepressant or mood stabilizer. Even better, why I’ve been on so many with no side effects of any kind. Apparently quitting Effexor at 300 mg with no side effects is unheard of. "What happens if you’re happy and don’t even know it"
So me, reading between the lines… "I think you’re faking this" No he didn’t say it, but that’s where the conversation seemed to go. That’s what I got out of the hour there. I don’t think it dawned on me until the drive home, but that’s definitely where I think he was going.
The last time I saw the psychiatrist she spent less than five minutes with me. It helped me none. So I’m not going back there either.
I feel like a sham. Like no matter what, no one is going to believe me about how much I’m hurting. But that’s okay, because since my feelings aren’t real, the next time I feel like killing myself or cutting, I don’t have to fight those feelings either, right?