I Think I’m Frustrating My Therapist

That’s not a good sign…


For the last couple of months, I’ve been trying to work with my therapist on getting over an ex that I haven’t seen or spoken to in ten years.

Yes, it’s true, I think I’m addicted to my ex.

My therapist, bless her heart, can’t seem to wrap her mind around the fact that I am still not over him.

Why am I not angry at him for what he did?

Why am I still so angry with myself for not reaching out and trying to talk through it and fix things?

I don’t know the answers to those questions, that’s why I’m talking about it in therapy, after all, but I think that my therapist is starting to get frustrated with the lack of progress I’m making.

I asked her today if we could try EMDR therapy — memory reprocessing.

For some reason, I’m convinced that this is what I need, to alter or erase the memories I have of him and our time together to be able to move on and stop thinking about him so much, but alas, that’s not the way it works.

Apparently, it’s more about having a statement that I believe about something, or about myself, and changing that statement through reprocessing.

But, I haven’t come up with that statement yet, and I don’t even know where to start, because, as my therapist points out, I am still set thinking as if this just happened and isn’t ten years gone.

Oh, balls.

Every time I sit down in her office I feel like we have the same conversation over and over again, and I think she feels the same way.

It’s just that today, she sighed at me, and I realized she might be more frustrated with me than I am with myself.

“This is hard,” she admitted, “Because usually, break-ups are new events, not this old. And it’s not like you haven’t been through a trauma, this was clearly traumatic to you, but it was so long ago and you’re still holding on.”

Yes, I am still holding on.

But all I want to do is let go.

I’m never going to see him again.

What’s more, is, I never want to see him again.

I never want to go back to that place where I am so vulnerable and able to be hurt by him.

I have accepted that it’s over and he’s gone — in my mind, anyway — but somehow, for some reason, my heart is hanging on.

I feel compelled to write about it, even if I have to keep writing about it because I have to get these feelings out of me somehow and put them somewhere where they’ll be of some use.

Write it out, my therapist says.

Journal before you go to bed, she says.

I feel like that’s a bad idea because if I do, I feel like I’d be more likely to go to sleep with thoughts of him in my head and dreams coming to me unbidden.

So, instead, I write about it here.

Articles and poems.

Neverending, it seems.

Are you sick of it, yet?

I am.

But this is my life, like it or not.

I’m a forlorn and brokenhearted mess, and even my therapist is sick of hearing about it.

I’ll keep writing about it anyway because it does seem to help in a way.

It makes me feel less crazy if just one person says “I’ve been there.”

Wink wink. Nudge nudge.