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I can't even pretend to be eloquent and inspirational. By all accounts, I had a good therapy session: I was able to talk to her about the hugs. I shared my news about going back to school. We discussed my family some more. We talked an awful lot. Maybe that was the problem: too much talking, not enough feeling.

I brought up how therapy might end. The NHS has finite sessions of psychotherapy, especially for people with my supposed strength (cough - control - cough). It sounds like I'll run out of time in September.

After learning that, suddenly the uncertainty, the ignorance, felt so much better. Give me back the Unknowing. Feelings are just too much work.

I am ready to share how crazy I am, I think. The derealisation and depersonalisation. The mixed episodes (anxiety + depression + suicidal thoughts). The cognitive soup. The hallucinations.

More and more, the 50 minutes feel unfulfilling. I am moving too quickly, covering too much ground, to bring it all to session. And how can she keep track of who I am if I am constantly changing? And then there is the end.

Our relationship is changing. I'm not sure I like it.

I'm upset. Defensive, even. The Inner Bully is being mean to me for feeling like this. I just can't win. Happy, or sad. It's never good enough. I feel so insecure.

That's a new vocabulary word, btw. My first naming of a complex emotion -- it's almost like saying my first word! I didn't even get a chance to share it with her. She sets the agenda, because up until this point I've been unable to. But now we've reached the level of trust where I do want to share. But what's holding me back is routine. Our routine.

I tried to explain it to her. How, the more I am able to hold on to my emotions, the less I want to talk about my childhood and the more I want to talk about the feelings that scare me here and now.

I didn't say it like that, so no wonder I wasn't happy with her response.

I get it. I'm both numb and in pain (migraine again). I'm exhausted. I don't want to think about any of this stuff. I feel fragile. Insecure.

She asked me again to consider journaling. I told her again I already do so. But maybe she means something even more thorough. I've been considering making notes each time I feel something. But I don't want to feed the obsessions. It's the obsessions and the anxiety and the panic which are the fast track to psychosis. I don't want to be on that train.

So I guess I'll grow at a slower pace. Accept that in September I'll be on my own again, and that ending won't invalidate all the hard work I've already put in. That in learning how to build a relationship with my therapist, I can do it again with someone else.

....

I'm pretty sure I just wrote stuff and I'm not sure where it's gone.

I suppose no matter how I feel right now (which is, pretty shit), the moral of the story is I need to be kind to myself.