I was informed a couple weeks ago that I was getting a new therapist. The previous one was getting a promotion, and she wasn’t keeping me as part of her reduced patient load. Part of me was happy.
The new one seems nice, like that generic niceness that comes from all therapists. She had her degrees on the wall, bachelors and masters in counseling. She also had her certificates in pastoral counseling. It made talking about my religious upbringing a bit awkward. Although she tried coming off as sympathetic, I knew I had to be careful in talking about the sort of damage my previous religious views had done.
She chalked my problems up to some generic stuff – words like “abandonment” and “trust issues” were in there somewhere. By that time I felt like I just wanted the session to be over with. This was the third time I’d had to relate my personal circumstances and personal history to a therapist. It was the third different response I got back.
I don’t know if it’s just my depressive mindset, but such things remind me of the severe lack of progress I’ve had. Medications keep me poised above a dangerous cliff, but they haven’t helped me walk away from the edge. I feel like I’ve wasted half a decade. It’s not quite true, but it’s not quite wrong, either.
At any rate, I’m still around and kicking. I’m not writing as much for various reasons, few of which I like. Writing has been an outlet for dealing with my misadventures, but it also holds up a mirror to my mind. I don’t always like what I see. It takes a lot out of me to look.