Saw my counselor today.
She chastised me because I spent the forty five minutes ranting about The Donor.
Well, when I tried to talk about my mood swings, depression, and anxiety, she said it all tied back to him.
I was trying to clue her in as to why my self confidence is in the bloody gutter. It all leads back to him and the fact that I loved him and I bought into all his manipulations and lies.
And she made me feel like a criminal.
Oh well. We had a few decent sessions.
Any time I do something outside her approval, though, I end up feeling like a kid getting their hand smacked.
I’m sorry if my estranged husband still invalidating me via postal service is stressing me out and making my mental stuff worse, allow me to drop it all and perform for your benefit, oh wise licensed counselor.
Licensed but fucking clueless.
I have a man basically blaming me for something that is a state sanctioned legal matter, how is that not gonna stress me out?
Isn’t it hysterical when you’re telling your therapist about your very public meltdown into tears and suicidal thoughts and she basically dismisses you like you’re just some drama queen?
Invalidation left and right.
Welcome to my life.
Is it bedtime yet?
THIS is why my decor runs to skulls and grim reapers and Freddy Kruger and Jason Vorhees.
Because for all my panic and paranoia, I know those aren’t the monsters to fear.
The scary ones are the ones wearing human masks and pretending they give a fuck what you’re going through.