Choices, choices

I hate this armchair, but I try to settle comfortably. I am paying for this, after all.
"So let's pick up where we stopped last week. Why don't you want to have children?"
I look at him. He's scratching his nose, not looking like an inquisitor at all. I smile.
"I don't want anyone to have my genes."
"What's wrong with your genes?"
"I'm chronically depressed." I wave an airy hand. And all that. I also have really bad blood circulation and asthma. But those don't count. They aren't life-threatening. They don't make you want to die. Or try to die.
"Do you believe depression is genetic?"
"I believe that it is, yes. And even if it's not, how could I bring up someone if I'm sad a lot? Wouldn't it be unfair on the child?"
I was brought up by someone with addiction. I know what it feels when your love is not enough for someone to change, not enough to make them happy. When you are a child, you don't know happiness is something you make for yourself. You think it's your fault.
"Why do you believe it's genetic?"
"I don't want to believe I had a choice in this."
I didn't choose to be alive. A lot of the time I wish I weren't. I'm stuck here for the best and for the worse. And my best is amazing. And my worse is soul-killing.
"I don't want to believe that I chose depression for myself."
"You've been through a lot."
"No, I haven't. And even if I had, it wouldn't change anything to the fact that it's my responsability to go beyond my bad experiences to make something of myself. If it's something wrong in my genome, my stumbles don't make me feel so guilty."

I choose to not be angry; I choose to forgive and forget, I choose to fight for what I care for.

"Maybe everything is a choice."
"Life isn't."
"Yes it is. You're here. You're choosing to remain alive. You're choosing to see me. You're choosing to get better. Every morning you go running to pump some endorphins in yourself and make yourself happier."
I can't see through my tears.
"Sometimes I feel no one knows what this feels like. How bloody hard it is. That no one cares."
"Don't you think I care?"
"I don't know."
My family cares. My friends care. But in the end, the shrink is right.

I choose this struggle, and I will run again tomorrow, and I'll think of the things I love and am passionate about. I'll see my friends and family. I'll cuddle with the cats and make really stupid jokes.

Whatever is coming, I may not be ready, but I choose to pretend I am. Give it to me, and watch me take it.

I choose to be a grown-up.

How to choose your therapist (or do they choose you?)

My first experience with a therapist was at my university in America, where foreign students were encouraged to talk to someone in case they had adaptation problems. This was a good initiative and since I was homesick (and also without realizing it at the time spiraling down into depression), I booked a meeting with Rachel.
Rachel was a kind person but she was incredibly wrong for me, for several reasons.
1)She was easy to read.
Let me clarify: I could tell exactly how she reacted to all my disclosures and which ones hit home. She was clearly a troubled eater, I guessed that early in our conversations from her way of talking. She was constantly reassuring me about my weight, which is neither here nor there. It's not about the weight for me. It's about loving myself. However, she had a fixation on weight and it showed. I ended up not talking to her honestly because I knew in advance how she would react and that it hurt her feelings that I , a slimmer person than she, should feel unlovable.

2)She was not subtle.
My maternal language is French. I was talking to her in English. This obviously has consequences for therapy. I would often try to explain why some words had a special meaning to me because they were "new", or reminded me of a French word that had impacted me in some way. She would never understand this and always tell me that "it's the same word, just in a different language."

3)She let herself be manipulated by me
I'd like to emphasize the fact that I don't think she was bad at her job, just bad for me. I managed to have her prescribe me the medication I wanted to take to commit suicide. I never told her I had tried to kill myself. I never trusted her enough, because she hadn't been able to understand my deviousness.

My second therapist was a Lacanian psychotherapist who believed that only complete silence on his part would reveal my pain. I quickly got freaked out by the eery silence pervading all our "conversations" and gave up.

My current therapist is a psychiatrist. He is very good at deciphering my moods, never lets himself be misled by me. He avoids any identification and gently reproves me when I try to get him involved in my story. For the time being, he is the right person for me. Funnily enough, I feel that he chose me rather than the other way round: during our first talk he looked at me earnestly, and then told me to come back next week because we had work to do. I felt like I'd just passed a successful test. Yes, you are demented enough for me!
So if at first you don't succeed, try again. I believe many could benefit from therapy, but that we all have different needs. So trying out different methods can be necessary. Or you can be lucky and find someone perfect for you on your first try.

I find therapy incredibly challenging. I often ponder our discussions during the entire week after our meeting. I often leave the office crying or very sad, but it has taught me so much about myself.

Celebration

More than two years ago, I tried to kill myself.
I had absolutely no will to live.
I can't explain this feeling to anyone who hasn't been very depressed-numbness is the best word, although a numbness so steeped in self-hatred that it cannot truly leave you numb, only stunned.

Fast-forward two years later.

I have stood by my father as he fought for his life.
I have successfully fought my bulimia.
I have managed to fall in love and give my trust to another human being.
I have made huge progress in truthfulness.

I may be dumped. My ex may not want me anymore, may not fantasize about me anymore, hold me lovingly anymore. He may even hate me at times, he may fuck others, care for others, forget about me while I still yearn.

But I want to celebrate my pleasure in life. I enjoy living. Even this, this pain, is delightful in its intensity. I am alive. Yeah, I might still have low points and not be the funnest girl on the block, but this is so nigglingly inconsequential, so absurdly irrelevant to me, that I won't even consider it.

Live your life, love your life and reach out to others. Happy Friday.