Just got back from my first therapy session with the new therapist – which means, it wasn’t a consultation, and we’re going to keep working together. It’s good, he thinks we can get a lot accomplished, and I feel the same way.
It kinda fucking sucked, I’m not going to lie. But only in the way that a session kinda fucking sucks. I mean, you’re sorting through the shitty emotional, psychological debris of your life, and it’s rough. It was only a little rough tonight, actually, pretty light, even though I cried alot. I tried to crack jokes, too, though – I’m a wiseass, it’s probably my strongest coping mechanism, and you know it’s fucking BAD when I’m not making lameass jokes or sarcastic “witty” comments. It’s only going to get rougher, and I know this, but I’m doing it. I need it, and it’s going to make me so much better able to cope, and just all-around better. So it’s going to be hell, I’m sure, at times, but bring it. Let’s go. I’m ready.
Well, I say that now, but ask me again after my next session. Which, by the way, since evenings and weekends are such high-demand times and my schedule is nice and flexible, will be next Wednesday at 1:00pm. So I get to go back to work afterwards. That’s going to be fucking awesome. You know which “awesome” I mean, I don’t have to tell you. Actually, though, I don’t fucking care. I need this, it’s important, and it’s no big deal. So I go back to work with a honking red nose and a tear-streaked face, so fucking what. Either people will ask me if I’m okay, and I’ll say, “Yeah, I just had a therapy session. Now what do you need that’s work-related?” OR – they’ll be afraid to bother me and leave me alone. So, either of those options I’m okay with. Win-win. If they don’t ask, I’m fine. If they do ask, I answer, and I’m still fine. And that really is awesome. And now I have laundry to go do. Shit, actually, dinner to go eat, and THEN laundry.
