My first ever counselling psychologist (shoowahhh maaaan back round the millennium, on the toes of Table Mountain) said some things that stuck (to my hungry, velcro ego)…
“in primitive times you’d have been called something like old – woman – who – carries – the – sorrow, and people would go to you, to tell you their pain so you could hold it for them”
“you’re like a redcoat on an African ridge, standing up saying, ‘shoot here chaps‘”
He was a sharp and compassionate man, and he lost me completely around the time he asked if I’d considered drumming as a way of getting in touch with myself. Nuh uh, negative and nope to that – but I’d invested a fair amount in chemicals to get out of touch. Such warm and pretty escapes, so many of them. Such horrible, rusty, jagged edges around it all, behind it all. So blurry and bleary and faraway now. I am so very fucking tired. Hold your own sodding pain and what’s more, fire at will.
I’ve self harmed twice in the past few weeks, both times in the afternoons, when the chemical safety net has dropped suddenly. Shrink one suggested splitting the dose, which helps. Well, it helps to keep me sedated longer and a little more gently. The chemical cosh, amirite?
Self pity is ugly. I know. I know.