What. A. Mindfuck. It’s been two and a half months since I finished therapy and today I had a review appointment with one of the therapists, the bully one, not the gentle one. I used to argue with the bullying one a fair bit but she is incredibly perceptive. Scarily perceptive.
“So, how’s the mindfulness going?”
Oh yeah, that. *Cough* Well, you know, erm, well, I haven’t actually been doing it that much actually.
It’s hard to write about because I’m going so fast. Everything is fast. I am fast. Fast enough that she narrowed her eyes and starting doing risk assessment questions, which I flicked away. I know those questions too well.
I did tell her stuff. I told her about not doing mindfulness and why and how irritating it is because I have to drag my mind back over and over again and that’s tedious and annoying. I told her about what I’m doing with my life now. I told her that I crash and burn sometimes. I told her about the pavement. Her response? “Well, that wasn’t your finest hour.” Hence risk assessment.
She was delighted to hear what I’ve decided to do. She looked bowled over actually. Get in, I shocked the therapist. 😀 She recovered and asked me what comfortable shoes I’m wearing as I climb the mountain. “You do realise that you’ve just put yourself through massive amounts of stress and borrowed tomorrow’s energy, don’t you?” Ohhhh, the spoon theory. “Did you even think about your blisters?” So I’ve to think about what comfortable shoes I can wear as I climb through the next few months. Because, great as the epic new stuff is, I have a vulnerability. Her word, not mine.
She told me that which she has told me a thousand times before – I’m incredibly self-critical, guilt-driven and the self-compassion element of the therapy is my weakest point.
She said that for a woman who understands language as well as I do, I’m remarkably dense about recognising the shite language I use about and to myself. She said I need to slow down and stop pushing and interrupting long enough to see what I do to myself. She said that if I had slowed down long enough to see what was going on inside my head yesterday, I might not have taken all afternoon and evening to recover from my boss mentioning my sick leave in a hushed voice as if it was something to be ashamed of.
She said I’m a bully. I bully myself. I don’t take the time to assess what I need to do to take care of myself. She asked what I did when I lost the plot last week and when I told her I was sensible and went home she asked why I had gone to work in the first place. Why hadn’t I realised how bad things were? Why do I only ever take action to look after myself when I’m desperate?
But here’s the mindfuck. She also said I’m a very powerful woman.
She said I’m driven, ambitious, intelligent, headstrong, passionate, persuasive, forceful and very powerful.
The woman who last week was rocking and crying on a pavement? And a few weeks before that was rocking and crying on the floor of a toilet cubicle while her friends had fun outside? I mean, when my sick leave was brought up yesterday I instantly started worrying about being weak. I’ve never thought of myself as powerful before. She certainly succeeded in shutting me up. I came out stunned and I have no idea how to process what she said.
She said I have to learn how to use and control my own power because I’m so powerful that I could do amazing things and I could also really hurt myself.