therapy 2.0
Ugh.
Bleh.
Feh.
Poo.
Me: "I rode my scooter recently. Before you start, I know what you think."
Her: "Let me count to 10 first. OK, now let's go into all the reasons you want to live."
Feh, I say, FEH.
I hate therapy. I love my therapist, but damn it, why does she always have to make sense?
I'm up to my neck in trying to reframe things.
It's too big.
I'm have cognitive issues.
I'm scared.
I want my life back.
You know, the one where I could have more than four glasses of wine without freaking and could consider the odd street drug if it came to pass (even if I didn't do it, I still had a fucking choice). The one where I could ride my scooter without endangering my life.
Choice and carefree are words that have less meaning than ever.
Comments
Thank you so much.
And your blog continues to be one of the most entertaining I've ever read. Thanks for that, too.