I have about 4 hours to go until I'm on the couch. I know it's probably going to be a normal couch, most likely beige, with a few pillows thrown about in non-garish colors. I would really prefer an old-fashioned pyscho-analyst couch. They're crisp and clean looking. Not soft, but comfortable. I'd like to lay down on one of those and close my eyes. I would not have to face this other human being while I humiliated myself. I wouldn't have to look in the eyes of the person who is privy to my rapidly unraveling psyche, my irrational opinions, my pathetic dead or dying dreams.
Therapy is like confession, only there's no privacy screen. I want that privacy screen. This whole process would just be so much easier if I didn't have to look directly at the doctor's face while I said, "I'm fucked up."
I'm worried about this encounter. I'm afraid that he will say, "You are beyond help or redemption. There is nothing to be done." I am worried about a strategically placed box of tissues sitting on the coffee table and the baby tears that its existence invites. I am worried about my ability to form a coherent thought. I am worried about boring him with my rambling. Because that's what I do. I fucking ramble when I'm nervous. I behave weirdly and girlish. I apologize constantly for stupid shit. Dealing with me, on any level, is just exhausting. This poor fucking guy. He has no idea what he's in for.
1 day ago