therapy

I’ve only been to one therapy session before. It was rather recent–maybe two or so weeks ago. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. I made the appointment in a moment of desperation (I tried to interact with a person and it didn’t exactly work out). I though that instead of crying and cutting over it, I would be appropriate and handle my porcelain emotions carefully and not break myself. As soon as I called to make the appointment, I found out that I had to wait like 3 weeks. I lost it after I hung up and ended up cutting myself, which I personally don’t see as the biggest deal ever. After a while I was fine and as the appointment date drew near, I kind of didn’t want to go because I was feeling so good. Knowing that eventually I would crash and end up as miserable as I was before, I sucked it up and went. I filled out those stupid questionnaires to the best of my ability. (I hate when they ask if it’s bothered me that I’ve been depressed and shit like that. Does my depression have to bother me in order for me to get help? Why would something I’ve learned to live with for years bother me terribly?) I made it clear that I was not actively suicidal. And then I saw her. She had this thick accent, maybe Mexican or South American even though she looked white. She said that she read over my questionnaire and my answers and wondered why I was here. That fucked me up kind of bad, askin me why I turned up. She meant it because I didn’t see that much wrong with the way I was feeling, only that I knew I shouldn’t be feeling that way. I told her that I didn’t really know. We talked about how I see things in black and white (I know she was thinking about BPD, I fucking saw right through her, I am very aware of that bullshit). She implied that I don’t really want to kill myself, that my suicidal ideation was a mere safety blanket for me. She kept on asking me if I saw that contradictions in my thoughts, which of course I did. I think about suicide more than anything else, I’m still ironing out my philosophy. I actually discussed one method I was thinking about and relayed to her how it would be impractical, seeing as I don’t have a car/place of my own and am not sure if the Wal Mart sells just the guns or the guns and the ammo (and if so, do they allow you to buy both at once?). I talked a lot, I cried because I am a big asshole baby, and then when my time was almost up she asked me what I wanted to do. I said I didn’t know, although I wanted to tell her that I wanted to be heavily medicated so that I can breeze through my existence as a mindless zombie, as that is the only way I will survive. But I said nothing. She told me that in my life I’ve had no control so that I should make my own decisions and if I wanted to, make my own appointment. That felt to me like a mild rejection, which she should have known to avoid since BPD was on her mind for me. So I was fucking livid and upset and I walked out of there and went home and got to my room and cried. Then my roommate came back so I went to the bathroom and cried. The one time I reached out to someone I got fucking nothing back. I felt invalidated, she made me feel as though I am not actually feeling the way I said I was feeling and that I shouldn’t have those feelings, anyway. The experience was too overwhelming for me. I never want to deal with that again.