brightlotusmoon: (Asha)
So, my thoughts have been spinning merrily amidst what could be a spiraling episode of... Oh, fuck, probably everything at once. After I had a chat with three doctors about the consequences of stress-related memory loss, I quietly decided to start a private mindfulness therapy, which I have only been sharing with the psychologist, for advice, while I move forward in my own brain to stop my own brain from destroying my mindstate.

Tomorrow, I see my general physician and have her write a referral for the local hyperbaric oxygen therapy center. Although it's a bit premature, as they have yet to call me back about an initial consultation. While I was filling out their online New Patient form, I started wondering if they would even take someone like me, with two dozen illness. Even though cerebral palsy is the cornerstone. I just feel so excited about it. That's a good thing. I can still most of my emotion things.

What I find beautiful and fascinating about my private therapy protocol is that almost nobody believes me. I have been stuck in something insane since 2010. Why would they believe I would "get better" now, so many years later after therapy and medications and meditative exercises? Then again, none of them have been in long term therapy or medication. It really does take many years to spur a change this massive. Hence the secret protocol, which includes a possible medication update and potential oxygen therapy.

I don't expect anyone to believe me. I don't expect anyone to believe in my desire to change with this therapy protocol. How could they? Why would they? I am the same as I was when symptoms started. But I don't want their belief. I don't really want support if there is no actual active knowledge. How can you say "Hey, I've been there, I get it, fist bump in solidarity" unless you really have gone through a similar structure of treatment repeatedly for a grab bag of illnesses that mindfuck you for no reason?
Actual legitimate question, BTW.
If you're also a parent of someone with interconnected psychiatric and neurological disorders, I would love input, because when I try to explain these things to my mom who only has hereditary ADHD controlled via lifestyle, my emotion-brain starts shutting down so my technical-brain can word at her, and I know she wants less science and more human. I'm trying. I just cannot get past that very protective mental guardian who shields emotion-Joanna from Outside. And oh, as much as I love Serena, she feels it is easier and gentler to let me sleep while she and Koan the calico kitten organize and compartmentalize all the Me. Ananta works hard enough balancing out all the neuroweird that Alicia in my private epileptic Wonderland can't reach. I haven't had much success in psychically merging with Asha. We are working out my dissociative and depersonalization episodes first.

I will do this. It will happen. Steps have been severely taken. Hard to talk. But if you think you get it, I would love a discussion via Private Message. I am willing to reveal bits and pieces of my Rebuild Joanna Brain Project to acquire tips and advice from those who get it.

Now, see, I view many people as family beyond my blood family - who shall remain the besy family I would want. Various people in my social circle - friends plus family - have always stood with me. I will always need and want that. But for those who are truly normal and looking at me with confusion, puzzlement, exasperation, fear, anger... and the type of condesencing that means pats on the head, chuckling, and "I love you sweetie. Of course you'll change." "You do nothing. You never help. You are too self absorbed, you don't think, you claim memory loss. It is all right, dear. We are used to hit. Just finish writing." Followed by another hair tousle. I'm used to it. It's routine because I am me.
I am not out to prove them wrong, not entirely. I am out to prove to myself that my neuroplasticity really might eradicate the worst of the annoying symptoms.
Maybe this whole autistic ramble came from my hope and excitement over this slow gentle therapeutic process. If loved ones want me to speed it up, I can turn away for a while to meditate.

All I know is that my own husband has been putting up with me forever, and that says something huge.

Love you, LJ family.
brightlotusmoon: (Asha)
Yes, obviously. Sheesh.

Friends have been sharing this back and forth into repetitive boredom, so I'll just add: Yes, this is obviously a strategy I've been implementing for a while in order to manage my mental illnesses, it is totally part of a very very specific personal therapeutic ritual that will take at least another couple of months to complete, and for Loki's sake, this stuff takes time, quit asking if I'm better yet. I've only been ritualizing for three years; most of this takes at least five. Plus, I can't just magically fix damaged neural pathways by thinking happy thoughts. Most people spend decades in therapy, while their acquaintances urge them to fix themselves faster. The frantic urging especially comes from people who've never even been in states of extreme anxiety, clinical depression, endless chronic pain, obsession, compulsion, memory disintegration, traumatic stress, dissociation, depersonalization, derealization. I often hold back from just punching walls. Therapeutic ritual and mindfulness in mental artistry takes time and a large amount of control. I've only been doing it since 2011. By 2015 something will at least be, as they say, Fixed. At least enough to allow other treatments to fall into place. Until I finish that intense ongoing ritual, I'll keep on battling where battles must be fought.
brightlotusmoon: (Asha)
"...Williams died by the claw of the ghastly inner monster that severe depression lodges in the human spirit, losing a long fight with the unholy ghost." -Brain Pickings (included is a link to a book referencing clinical depression to a holy ghost)

In my last session with my therapist, I kept calling depression The Hollow and a Dark Ghost and The Nothing and, naturally, true pure abyss. In such violent howling emptiness, there could be sound and fury, signifying nothing. And sometimes there is just nothing. Fury would be an emotion, after all.
(And I know why depressed people don't tell the tale, lest they be called an idiot. They'll be mocked today. And tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. And they are heard no more, and as they are poor players, life is but a walking shadow. Out, brief candle. -And people wonder why we get angry when mental illness gets blamed for so many blameless things and things where mental illness is completely not ever the blame. This is why we can't have nice things.)

People always ask me why I cry when I say I am hollow, empty, ghostly, feeling nothing. Isn't crying an emotion? they say Doesn't it mean you feel something? they say. I think Allie Brosh, who wrote the greatest description of depression I have ever read in her blog Hyperbole and a Half, said it best: It is just something that is happening.
Because I don't feel like crying. I'm crying because my body is having a reaction. A symptom, if you will. Something needs to release. Some sort of physiological reaction must occur, lest I literally fade into ghosts.

I understand some of the reasons Robin did what he did. I don't know why he did what he did. No one knows why. No one can know why, because no one is Robin.
People have the same thoughts and feelings and illnesses as Robin had, and they see everything he saw. But none of them and nobody will ever fully purely viscerally know, truly know why he, Robin Williams, the funniest man of a thousand laughs, physically participated in his own death. Only Robin Williams knows.

Cool story, bro:
Someone who survied her own suicide attempt once told me that for her, there was only pain, agony, chaos, and the kind of despair that consumes utterly. Beneath it was a nearly robotic thought process. Any emotional thoughts came from a distance. As she began the process, she became enveloped in a still emotionless sedating transcendent serenity, and time slowed down, and she literally had no more thoughts. Since she was stopped by other people, she couldn't tell me much more. But she told me that during recovery, she experienced every single one of those sensations at once, from the pain and chaos to the calm transcendence. It took a lot of sedatives and intense biofeedback to help her out of that state and she was put on suicide watch again for a few days. They allowed her family to bring in her kitten, which helped so much that she now advocates for cat therapy when treating mental illness. I think of her when I talk to attempt survivors. I only remember her first name and some day I will forget some of her story. But she lives a different life. Not better nor worse, just different. She has learned lessons. She doesn't regret things. She still battles symptoms and switched to a new drug regimen and still does biofeedback. She hasn't had any suicidal ideations in over a year. She also treats her cat like the most important sentient being in the universe, since he helped save her life. Cats are awesome.
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Ruby Blood Dragon Witch)
Holy crap, faith in people restored. I asked a taxi driver how to walk to the therapist office, and after he gave me directions, he noticed my cane and then he offered to drive me and show me the exact route. And I quote "I want to spare you some pain and fatigue." When I told him I only had 15 in cash, he said he would take 5 in total regardless of distance and would help me just because he wanted to. Sweetest cabbie ever.

Most intense hypnotherapy so far. I cried. Many emotions and realizations were released. It was fantastic. We shall continue in that focus next week. It is a lot to focus on.
In the meantime, I will try to avoid joining discussions about social justice and socioeconomic issues that make me feel uncomfortable. I need to just walk away and breathe and let it go, and not allow poor internet manners and trolling for fun make me sad.

Oh gods, Dawson's Market. Oh, oh, oh. Tempt Hemp Milk Unsweetened Original. Pumpkin Brownie. Cheesecake Brownie. Lake Champlain Mocha Hot Chocolate Mix. Giovanni Cosmetics 2chic Ultra-Sleek Leave-In Conditioning & Styling Elixir at half price. Organic canned cat food. I love this store. This store is like my best friend in organic market form. Even if I don't buy much, I love everything. In fact, I barely spent anything. Compared to Whole Foods, it has some better things, but Whole Foods has other better things. But Dawson's has hemp milk. Hemp Milk. Hemp. Milk. Nobody else has hemp milk. Or that Mocha Dutch Cocoa Powder. And Dawson's is indeed less expensive. So, yes. Dawson's Market, I love you.

I am really loving Once Upon A Time In Wonderland. I really am watching for any bits that remind me of my epilepsy adventures.

Seriously, that hypnotherapy session. I keep going back to it. I keep remembering how kind, compassionate, and loving Sanaa was when she sent me under and guided me. I keep thinking about what we will do in the next session. This is powerful. This may be the life-changing session.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
I have learned this: I am good at pretending to be "normal" while my inner self cries out in fear and terror and anxiety and self-loathing, curling up against the rockiness of my scarred brain, shivering with open wounds from various hard scoldings that take the psychic form of beatings. I admit, I am a child in so many ways. I still do not know how to handle a hard cold world.
I am in support groups, and various therapies, and I am seeing various doctors, and I am taking various medicines that are working... and yet people still scream and scold me about mental illness symptoms that I really am still struggling to keep under control. I keep saying "This won't go away overnight. I'm not going to get better in just a few months. This might take years."
I am finally happy to know that people accept this. But I am now afraid to answer emails and phone calls from those who would only want to scold me. And if I do answer, my brain shuts down its emotional bits, turning numb and detached and analytic. That is not a way to live.
I am a warrior. I am a dragon. This is my fight. I will battle the parts of me that insist on carrying out symptoms of mental illness, but the only people who can help me are me myself, my doctors, my specialists, and my therapists. The only people who I want to support me are my closest treasured loved ones who actually understand what it all means to be swept away and nearly drowned by mental disorders that keep trying to destroy us...

Postscript: I suppose this would fall under that category of "stop medicalizing yourself, you hypochondriac cripple, grow a backbone and get better already." Sometimes I repeat that to myself; oddly enough, it is like a calming mantra.
brightlotusmoon: (Pixie Model 2)
My initial physical therapy visit was so wonderful, they've set me up for more therapy two times a week for the rest of the month. Physical stretches and exercises with Dolores and Carolyn, biofeedback and meditation with Mercedes, and so on.

Dolores was happy that I knew everything about all my issues, and I even showed her my phone note with every single condition. She started me off with some basic light core and leg movements, then a heating pad against my lumber area.
I spent about two hours with her. She was unbelievably knowledgeable about fibromyalgia and cerebral palsy; she was so compassionate and understanding that I wondered what planet I was on.
I'm used to "regular people" mocking the syndrome nastily, calling sufferers "fakers" and "liars" and "drama queens" and "desperate for attention" and "pill seekers" and "exaggerating everything." Even many doctors and medical staff mock us. But the medical staff and doctors I have seen have all been... incredible. Astounding. Extraordinary. Maybe karma is finally giving me something back?

When I spoke to my mother later, she of course wanted to know when I would get new orthotics, when the tharapy would start working, etcetera. I called her a bulldog and said I'd smack her on the nose; she said she'd bite my leg. We have that sort of joke a lot.

My twice weekly sessions start next Monday. They printed out the entire October schedule. This is going to be amazing. I think I have finally found the best therapist.

On the flipside, I am completely exhausted right now. Things hurt, so I took pills. But for that hour after I left the NHR building, I felt energized, refreshed, stretched, in less pain.
The bus stop in front of the building was for a Ride On bus that ended at Montgomery Mall in Bethesda. I thought sure, what the hell, and walked around the mall for two straight hours. Spent some time in Sephora with coupons, got some free stuff from the Body Shop. But it was the walking that was needed. At the end, when the bus went to Rockville and I transferred to Shady Grove and took the Lakeforest bus and was dropped off in front of my neighborhood, I was so drained that I didn't want to talk, I barely wanted to move. Adam was home at that point, so I spent a few moments welcoming him home. Then I crawled upstairs, put my stuff away, and fell onto the couch.

So. We shall optimistically anticipate next week's therapy sessions, especially the biofeedback.
brightlotusmoon: (Pixie Model 2)
Oh, hey, specialized physical therapy specializing specifically in fibromyalgia. Look at that. I'll have fun with that on Wednesday. I would love to know what the mocking crowd thinks about that.

Even though it is desperately needed, I hate stretching my neck. I hate stretching my spine. Even though I could probably stretch myself a permanent inch or two. (If I ever break five feet, I am throwing a party. So, probably never, since I'm 33 now.) Here's hoping that my new physical therapy specialist (in fibromyalgia and cerebral palsy) can help me stretch while I drug myself on painkillers and muscle relaxants so my screaming doesn't alarm anybody.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
In therapy today, I realized some very extreme revelations about why I've been stalled in my writing, and my therapist was able to help me see through it and separate my writing self from my physical self. The classic phrase "Writing is part of me, writing is in my blood" was a very literal thing for me. It was like a blood vessel or an artery. The way I was feeling about my damaged body was badly reflecting on how I was feeling about my writing skills. So we worked it out, and I slowly began to understand that I did not need to actually become my writing the way my chronic conditions were overtaking my body. I needed to separate it all.
In that process, I suddenly had a realization that had eluded me for ten years regarding my novel in progress. That led to a realization that I could easily write short stories again, if I followed my heart and nothing else. It was so monumental and powerful that I fell back against the couch, began laughing, gripped my head in my hands, and gasped, "My gods, what the fuck have I been doing?"
Dr. Jen was grinning from ear to ear. "I can feel your energy from here!" she said excitedly. "Here, write it down." She gave me a pen and a pad of paper, and I quickly scribbled just a few lines -- just enough to remind me of what I had to do. Dr. Jen proclaimed that this was one of our best sessions. There is a weight lifted. Relief is falling all around me and consuming me. My mantra for this is "I am doing this." Not "I will do it" or "I will try to do it."
"I will do this."

I'm off to MS Word now.
Ten years. Ten fucking years...

There is more. There is so much more, but this is all I can remember right now.
I haven't felt this confident about my writing in a fucking decade.
Oh my gods.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
Today was A Day. Also, pain. Therapy revealed some intense things I hadn't realized, and I'm squirming and twitching and trying to formulate plans to make it easier. Nothing's easy. But life finds a way.
The psychotherapist got very very concerned at one point, saying that she heard deeper depression in my voice, and she suggested that I talk to my neurologist about doubling the Zoloft. I'm okay with that. I want to feel better. The thing about depression with anxiety for me is that I don't know I'm depressed until someone says something, because I've been too anxious. I take this to heart.

Afterward, I realized the codeine had started wearing off, and I was hurting. I was hurting and hurting and my breaths were short and whimpering. But I told myself I was strong.
To prove myself, maybe test myself, I went out and walked. A lot. I even shopped a little. I stayed well within my set budget. Granted, it was Whole Foods, but I was smart, and I ignored many shiny things. I finally did find my long-sought goji juices. Also, a small round personal cheesecake. I have no idea why they label cheesecake organic. It's pointless. It did have limited, fresh, good ingredients, but it didn't need that buzz word label. But oh, it was mind-numbingly delicious, so I didn't care.
I was in fucking pain. I'd taken codeine in the morning, because the morning was That Fucking Bad. When I came home, I took Soma, because the afternoon was That Fucking Bad. Some of my joints are still complaining. Shut up, joints.
I wonder what my dreams will be like tonight. Last night it was all about vast mansions and supernatural mysteries. The night before it was all about gourmet foods and sparkling restaurants, and I wasn't even hungry. But I did crave chocolate espresso.
Croissants are among my favorite comfort foods. They make fantastic breakfasts when combined with eggs over easy.

I'm watching more Star Trek on Netflix. Is Kirk ripping his shirt a Thing? It happens a lot.


Jul. 11th, 2011 08:39 pm
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
At least this time, I am very, very grateful for the wild thunderstorm that is merrily thunderstorming its way through the area. It's like the end of that Twilight Zone episode "Midnight Sun" when Norma awakens from her nightmare about the world falling toward the sun into a reality where the world is falling away from the sun, and all she can think of is how lovely the coolness and darkness is while her companions stare bleakly at each other because they hadn't been running high fevers with mad dreams full of melted paintings and Holy Bacon It Is Fucking Hot moments. Today was nearly a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and now there is cool rain, blessed rain. Until tomorrow, when it's back into the nineties.

My pain has been bad. It has been awful. It has been all over and extreme in ways that I know many of my LJ friends with chronic pain can understand.

I cried in therapy, but I always cry in therapy. Dr. Jen was sweet and supportive, and we covered a huge ton of issues in forty-five minutes. I'm feeling something start to crack. I don't know what it is yet.

I've decided to remove myself completely from certain forums and communities that center on chronic pain, specifically fibromyalgia and cerebral palsy, because the support there is severely lacking. I don't want someone else dictating how I should work with my pain. I've come to realize that it's triggering in strange ways. I can't really describe it very well. But I'm learning how to be myself in a way that I didn't realize before.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
I feel so upbeat and... whee. No reason. Just because. This is unfamiliar. I like it.
Psychotherapy went very well. I love Dr. Jen. She gets me. She listens intently, says things in a certain way, and suddenly I realize things about myself. I'm smacking myself for not doing this sooner: Not going on Zoloft and Klonopin, not finding Dr. Jen, stubbornly refusing outside help. I listened too much to everyone who insisted that I was fine and could get through it all on my own. Screw that. There is no shame in seeking professional help.
Dr. Jen said that I am finally starting to accept that I really am very disabled and do need help, and I am doing the best right thing in filing for disability. The lawyer will do everything he can. My doctors will do everything they can. It's all up in the air. I don't know. I know I cannot work a full time or part time job without major accomodations, and no employer wants that. I need help. I am not ashamed. I am strong and powerful despite myself. I am Me, damn it. I embrace myself. That is hard to say. It is hard to do.
I'm scared of myself. There are many parts of me that need to be put back together. There are walls everywhere. Walls of ice, walls of cinderblock, walls of stone, walls of brick, walls of magic. It's wild. I don't know who I used to be, but I remember that she loved the world and everything in it. I want to be her again. I do believe that the combination of talk therapy and medications will really help. I'm scared to let myself out. I don't know who I will meet. But I tentatively look forward to meeting her one day. We will dance together and it will be lovely.
I miss myself.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
A while back, I was asked why I prefer helichrysum oil in my skin care. It's costly, it's rare, and it doesn't have the prettiest fragrance. But it packs a fucking punch. (Also, it works so well with tamanu and sea buckthorn to smooth out scars and blemishes that it makes me weep.)

My current favorite helichrysum-infused products that give me the best emotional reactions:

I would add another Etsy product but it's not up yet. It is, sort of, but in a smaller size. The larger size will be avaiable soon. I helped create the product my very self. It's amazing. It's here:

Also, as far as aromatherapy goes, helichrysum is one of the best when it comes to emotional and spiritual therapy. It's like if a precious gemstone were a flower extract.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
I'm taking D-Ribose powder as an experiment, sponsered by my mother because she wants to know if it will help my fatigue and fibromyalgia. The package just arrived. I took the first dose, two teaspoons. I'm more awake than I was an hour ago, at least. Also the powder is sweet and tasty just mixed in water. I might try it in coffee next. I'll see what happens in the next few weeks as I consume the powder every day.

It seems that summer is here already. According to extended weather forecasts, the temperatures will hover between the low seventies and upper eighties (Farenheit) for the rest of May, and will just stay in the eighties throughout June. We haven't turned on the air conditioning unit yet, relying on window fans. It's all right with Adam gone for days on end, since I and the cats can handle just having the window fans. But once Adam is home tomorrow, we'll have a new digital thermostat installed, and that way we can easily keep the whole house at a steady 72 degrees. Plus, Pepco will give us monthly discounts on our electricity bill.

Also, Adam will be home tomorrow morning. The email with his flight itinerary says so. JOY AND LOVE.
Hopefully he will have the weekend and Monday off, and hopefully he will be able to drive me to Dr. Jen's office on Monday.

The fibromyalgia is making my body a place of hell today. I can deal with it, but I wish I didn't have to.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
My second session with Dr. Jen. Oh, I can tell that my walls will start crumbling before these twelve weeks are up. She is what I need in a counselor. She will help me rip away the masks and costumes, she will help me break down parts of the walls, she will help me confront everything I don't want to face about myself. And I will talk and talk, and I will realize and I will rationalize and I will intellectualize. But will I really face those emotions I don't want to face? There is a massive chasm inside me surrounded by walls and masks. How far will I leap? How far will I fall? What will I create to cushion my fall? Second session, and I already know I need this, so so badly. I don't know who I am. I don't know who I will be. I thought I knew, I really thought I knew. I know nothing. But I will, in the end. I will understand even if I don't want to. I'm like my book that I'm having trouble finishing. Blankness near the end, because I'm not sure what to do between one part and the next as I move toward the final chapter. Dr. Jen was very intrigued by this. When I'm with her I just keep talking, I can't stop talking. I talk and she asks and we discuss and then I stop talking, and coincidentally it's the end of the session. I don't know where it's all coming from, but I leave feeling relieved.

Sorry. Right. Hm.

Adam should be home on Thursday. He loves me so much, oh gods. He just wants me to be all right. He can't take my burdens but he can walk beside me and he can carry me if I need it. That's what I want and that's what I need.

I want to go back to the new Whole Foods in White Flint, not necessarily to buy anything, just to walk the aisles. It's huge and full of things I love. I hope and hope that its empty space on Rockville Pike will be filled by a Trader Joe's, or a Roots, or a Bloom.

There are so many online friends I want to meet and hug, even if we can't find things to talk about. I love comfortable silences. Books or computer tablets, just in each other's company, and good coffee and good tea and good food.

I really have no idea what will happen in my future. I am terrified and calm and anxious and all right.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
So, the Zoloft.
I saw the neurologist, who was pleased with my seizure progress. She understands that stress and exhaustion and anxiety are my biggest triggers and that while the Trileptal may not completely stop the seizures, it definitely reduces them well enough.
She wrote me a prescription for Zoloft. 50 mg once a day. She said to start by taking less Savella over the next month, and then fill the Zoloft prescription. I'm anticipating it. I know there will be side effects but I am prepared. I am very pleased. My disability lawyer will also have more proof for my appeal case.
I see Dr. Jen, the therapist, next Monday, and I'll fill her in on everything. Mom is going to pay for my therapy sessions directly and will send me money every month to help with the cost of all my prescriptions. I feel good about everything. Although right now I feel tired and lethargic and meh. I feel nervous about money for the future, but I may have options this summer. We'll see.

Adam is leaving for Las Vegas tomorrow, to work on another job, probably on or near the Strip. He'll come home next Wednesday. That means that he'll be away on our wedding anniversary, which is Sunday the twenty-second. That's fine, though. He'll be in the city where we became engaged. And considering that our wedding was not entirely what we wanted, thanks to his mother's insane meddling, I consider the entire month of May to be our anniversary month. We can celebrate when he comes home on the twenty-fifth.

I've been collaborating with an Etsy shop owner who makes custom skin creams, lotions, and soaps. I told her I wanted a single skin cream with over two dozen specific ingredients, and she didn't even flinch. She is so excited. She loves making custom products with tons of ingredients, and she loves having a customer who is so extremely knowledgable about oils and extracts and holistic skin care. My special cream should be done by the end of this month or the beginning of next month. It will be phenomenal and epic.

I think my sessions with Dr. Jen may also help restart my creativity and inspirations for the main novel I'm writing.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
I'll call her Dr. Jen.
She was sweet, soft-spoken, and deeply kind just in her body language, just by the energy she exuded. She radiated compassion and understanding, and I was so instantly put at ease that when I sank down onto the black leather couch and put the soft pillow behind me, I felt almost at home. Dr. Jen sat across from me, with a notepad, and smiled, and said, "Okay."
I said, "Okay," and smiled. "I don't... I don't even know where to start," I said. She said that was fine. I told her I might as well start from the beginning. I told her about my premature birth, my brain damage, the cerebral palsy, my childhood. Words tumbled out of my mouth. I told her about writing science fantasy, about writing superhuman characters, about the seizures and the sleep problems and the anxiety and the sadness. Every so often, she gently asked to interrupt so she could write things down. She said that normally she would just let the patient talk and talk, and then she would write, but she could tell I was a unique case already. I told her everything about the diagnoses, the pains, the frustrations. I'd begun crying the instant I started talking about being born.
I've heard that when many people begin therapy, they don't even know what to talk about. I not only talked, I told the therapist exactly what I wanted out of these sessions. That impressed her. Next week's session will be very interesting.


brightlotusmoon: (Default)

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