Heal Me…

This song is one I sang with my choir at our fall concert last month. We learned the songwriter wrote this out of her suffering from an ear infection…lol I loved it even more for that. And it fits for times lately in my life. I’m looking down at the lyrics in this video, btw.

I have had to work 5 hours overtime for the past two Saturdays and a third next week before the holidays. Just within the last two days I’ve noticed a marked difference in my overall mood. The negative thoughts are still there, just as they ever were with my personality, but no serious lows or desire to self-harm. The dosage increase I think is having its full effect now and just in time. Hardly two weeks ago I was set on starving myself out for how overextended I’ve felt.

This past Tuesday my mother attended a therapy session with me. I thought it would be a good chance for her to learn more about what I’m trying to manage. For my psychiatrist it may have been the richest chance he’ll ever get at learning my family history and my place among the rest, but for me – as I sat there listening to them go back and forth, could not have been worse. There were moments where I actually felt outside of their presence, like it wasn’t real but more of a dream like vision happening. I wanted to wake myself up from how absurd the whole scene felt.

And then the guilt set in. There I was, my mother’s last born, dragging her through the questioning and seeing me cry and expressing how helpless she felt toward what to do when I was in distress. But when my doctor outright said “Allyson has no anchor…” to keep me living. And mentioning the possibility that “Yes, she may die “by suicide, I was speechless and unexpectedly hurt. The whole thing seemed like he’d just confirmed his lack of faith in me being anything more than this empty, loveless waste of flesh. I felt I failed him, my mother and any regard for my own expectations lost between them. Wondering what the point was in denying my way to the end. My mother knows of the possibility now of what could happen, which until that point I’d tried to protect her from. If it happens, at least it won’t surprise.

I’m okay now, though never sure for how long. My concentration has sharpened, mornings don’t bear down on me as badly and I can safely calm myself down when necessary. So, rather than waiting until a bad day comes along to take advantage of how disturbed this whole episode in therapy left me, I’m going to schedule something sooner and talk to my doctor about this. I walked out feeling like he’s not understood me one moment for the years I’ve been in treatment. I can’t accept that.


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