As you know I took a slide backwards last week, in response to some things my therapist and I talked about. I feel bad because I’m sure you all think that my fall was caused by heinous events in my past. In a way it was, but only indirectly.
Just that my therapist chose to dig into my hopes and dreams and fears. She’s tried to dig there before but I haven’t let her. I don’t usually let ANYONE go there. I’m not sure why I let her, perhaps because she was gentle with me and I trust her more. Perhaps because I secretly knew I had to talk about this stuff some time, so why not in that session?
My therapist doesn’t think my wretchedness afterwards was a response to the intense emotions. Well, she might, but she also said that the things we talked about really touched a nerve (or ten) and, because I’ve never told anyone what lies deep inside, I felt completely exposed and vulnerable, as I did as a child. Yep. She’s got that right.
I was so shamed by the whole thing that I could barely look at her, and I prayed to every implausible deity I could think of for the chair to swallow me up. The deities mustn’t have been listening that day because the chair didn’t swallow me. It never does.
I’m rambling. I’m sorry. Perhaps avoiding the toxic waste?
So, what is this toxic waste? Well, it’s actually kind of silly. My therapist asked me again if I want a relationship and children. For some silly reason I was brave enough to tell her the truth: that I do want a relationship and I do want children. Desperately.
I yearn for the companionship of a relationship. Simple things like someone to come home to. Someone to share breakfast and the newspaper with on a Sunday. Someone – dare I say it – to love me and support me. Someone to care if I come home at night.
I also yearn to be a mother. To share in the miracle of life and the beauty of children. To love and nurture someone as I was never loved. Meanwhile, the tick-tock of that biological clock is getting louder and louder.
Of course, I am desperately afraid that these things will never happen. That even if they do, I’ll be completely hopeless at them. I’m afraid that I (and my father) will be proven right: that I am indeed unlovable. That my life will have been wasted.
And now that I write all this down it seems silly. I’m sorry to everyone if you thought this was something meaningful. I had a hard time writing about the sobbing, let alone its source as well. I’ll try not to do that to you again.