Therapy in my Madness

Standard

“I don’t like her,” Daniel tells me.

“Oh shut up.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Well, you don’t get a say, she’s my therapist.”

“She called me a cancer!”

“Well you ARE a cancer. In a way.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

We ignored eachother for the rest of the day after that. He’d still pop up, but he wouldn’t talk to me: he’d merely stick his tongue out at me and pretend not to pay attention. He’s a figment of my imagination, yet he expresses emotion more openly than I ever would, well, at least when I’m in my right mind.

That was the therapy session I had last week. And yesterday I had another.

This time, Lee had asked me to write a reflection about how I felt about the session. So now I am on the bus, and I’m writing it now.

The session was about expressing emotion, and how I had difficulty doing this.
Some points that came up were about how I couldn’t really express how I felt at home, and I was not allowed to have an opinion of my own, due to my parent’s philosophy of how children should be seen but not heard.
Lee had pointed out to me that whenever she asked questions about what I thought a parent should be like, or what sort of relationship I’d like with my parents, I would hesitate, and say “I’m not sure.”
Essentially, Lee suggested that I wasn’t getting enough emotional support at home, and that may be the cause of my delusions.

Ok, that’s good enough. But the point of this exercise was to record my emotions about this. That’s the hard part.

It was at this point that Daniel popped in.

“I’m in the middle of therapy homework, go away,” I tell him.

“I want to help,” he says.

“Well, you can’t.”

“Why not? Out of the both of us, I can figure your emotions better than you can.”

“Says who?” I retort.

“Says me.”

“You’re one of my Delusions,” I say. “I shouldn’t be relying on you for support.”

“Then who should you rely on?” He pops his feet up on the seat in front. “As far as I know, your home life isn’t the most emotionally supportive place.”

“There’s my friends. I have them at least, thankyou-” I suddenly recognise the phrase he used. “You were there!” I exclaim.

“Where?”

“At therapy! You were there!”

Daniel laughs. “Well, in my defence, it against my will.”

“How so?”

“When she brought up your emotional immaturity, I simply had to listen,” he answered. He turns to face me. “So, lets begin.”

My head flashes towards him. “Wait, what now?”

“Doctor Daniel is here to talk.”

“What?” I glare at him. “No.”

“It’ll be good for you!”

“No.”

Daniel crossed his arms. “What if I told you I were a doctor?”

“The only doctors I trust are Lee and David Tennant.”

“What about Matt Smith?”

“Lee, David Tennant and Matt Smith.” I think for a moment. “And Chris Eccleston.”

“Good to know.” Daniel moves closer to me. “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to help you.”

“What part of fuck off is so difficult for you to understand?” I hiss.

“What part of I’m here to help is so difficult for you to understand?” he answers.

“Forgive me, but I do not need what you call ‘help’,” I tell him angrily. “Now go away.”

For a while he’s silent. He just watches me get more and more frustrated as I try to write down how I’m feeling, with a big smirk on his face. Emotions are irritating. Daniel’s irritating. The fact I have currently have no Internet is irritating.

“And you,” I voice aloud. “Looking over my shoulder while I’m writing is particularly irritating.”

He grins. “Irritating’s my middle name.” He still hasn’t given up. “So now will you let me help?”

I refuse to answer him.

After I get off the bus, leaving Daniel there, or so I thought, I go to Hay Street to get some tea, before making my way to the food court, so I could finish my homework. I’m typing, and there’s a voice behind me.

“When Lee said you had no support at home, how did you react?”

I roll my eyes. “I told you to go away.”

“We’ve been over this before. I don’t listen.

“…”

“Now answer my question.”

“Why should I?”

He groans. “Silly girl, don’t you want to finish your homework?”,

I grimace. “I can’t,” I admit.

“And why not?”

“Because how am I meant to understand how I feel?!” I snap at him. By this time, a lot of people are giving me looks, so I take out my phone and pretend that I’m talking to the person on the other line.

Daniel doesn’t give up. “Ordinary people can.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Point taken,” he concedes. He thinks for a moment. “But, you do know what you think about something, yes?”

“Yes,” I say cautiously. “Where are you going with this?”

“It’s only an observation,” he assures me. “But if you think about what you think, you can surely figure out how you feel.”

“And talking to you will help me figure it out?” I retort bitterly.

He indicates what I’ve currently done. “I don’t see much being done here.”

I groan. Daniel already knows I’ve consented; he’s grinning like an idiot. “You sir, are an ASS,” I tell him.

Daniel merely rolls his eyes. “Go through everything she brought up,” he instructs. “Tell me what you thought about it, and then how you feel about what you thought.”

We start talking about my family’s ‘lack of emotional stability’.

“She’s right, you know,” he tells me. “How much can you tell your family?”

“Next to nothing,” I confirm. “But how much could you confide in your parents?”

He grinned. “Same as you. Less actually; I haven’t seen them in years.”

“Are they dead?” I ask.

He shrugs, as if his parents were as insignificant as the weather. “Maybe, maybe not,” he says lightly. “So why can’t you talk to them?”

I think. And then I grimace. “Every time I try to, they don’t listen,” I tell him. “And if they do, they’d later use it against me.”

Daniel frowns, confused. “How so?”

“If they knew the full extent of what was going on with,” I tap my temple to indicate my growing insanity. “They’d keep me locked up, or at least in a similar situation. I wouldn’t be allowed to go out anywhere, or do anything. I’d be the insane girl, locked up in an asylum created by them.”

“I see. And how does this make you feel?” Daniel adopts a calm, stereotypical psychiatrist-like falsetto.

I roll my eyes. “Angry, I suppose,” I tell him. “But…also hopelessness.” At Daniel’s look of confusion, I explain. “They’re never going to change. And I can’t make them change. I will never be able to rely on them.”

“Next question,” Daniel says. “How much do you love your parents?”

I remember Lee asking this question. “I thought a lot about that,” I recall. “I was confused for a while…”

“And now?”

“…still confused, but I know what I think.”

“That’s what we’re aiming for,” says Daniel. “What about your father, how much do you love him?”

“…I told Kim I love him for he is my father,” I say slowly. “I’ve had a better think about it now though.”

“And?”

I take a deep breathe. “My father is a pain in the ass,” I say. “But he understands me. We think alike, we react logically to situations. And we’re both interested in history, how people behave.” I look up at Daniel. “I can love him for those reasons. He understands me, and I like to think that I can rely on him for some support, which is more than I can say for my mother.”

“And what of her?”

“…”

“Answer the question.”

“…I cannot tell my mother anything without her using it against me,” I admit. “She criticises me on a daily basis, and that’s the least of it. She refuses to listen to my arguments; her word is gospel. Our outlooks…they’re far too different. And like I said, she won’t change.” I shake my head. “But she’s my mother. And therefore, I cannot not love her.”

Daniel frowns for a moment. “Your therapist asked you if you had met your mother by chance, on the street, and she was only a complete stranger, would you still want to know her? You had no answer then, but now that you’ve thought about it…”

“Let me think on it.” I’m typing up everything on the reflection thus far, and by the time I’ve done, I have my answer. “My mother is good fifty percent of the time,” I say. “But the rest of the time, I find myself wanting someone else. One who would love me without judging me.” I inhale, and for the first time today, I know how I feel immediately. I feel dread. “If my mother was a stranger, I wouldn’t want to know her,” I whisper. “Not as a friend anyway. I wouldn’t trust her not to turn on me.”

Daniel’s arm goes around me. “It’s like a coin flip,” he says to me. “There’s half of them that’s good, and makes you feel horrible at the thought of hurting them. And on the other side of the coin, they make you feel pain, and you want nothing more than to just get away.”

For a moment, I’m just looking at Daniel’s face. His eyes look green at the moment, the same colour as my blazer. Sometimes they look gold, like an autumn leaf, or grey like a cloud. Sometimes they even look blue, though when you focus, it turns out it’s only a different shade of green, a trick constructed by all that surrounds him.

They’re my eyes. My eyes match neither my mother’s or my father’s, they’re uniquely mine. And I see myself when I see Daniel, and our matching eyes. But he says everything I can’t, loud and clear. He’s arrogant, he often torments me, but then he turns around and saves me when I need it most.

Can you get to a point where you actually care for someone who’s a figment of your imagination?

I take that moment to run, and for whatever reason he has, he doesn’t follow, this strange delusion of mine.
________________________________________________________________________________

Another Daily Prompt Challenge. I read this after I had my appointment with Lee, and I decided to write this up.

We had talked about things like how I believed a mother should act toward her child, and I found myself making contrasts between my mother and how I would be toward my child. The more I think, the less I have in common with my parents, and sometimes I worry what would happen if I distanced myself from them all together.

To see the newest dpChallenge, check the link below.
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/09/16/writing-challenge-dialogue/

And Internet is finally back, thank god.

Mad Cat.

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