Therapy

Yesterday was my ninth out of a planned sixteen sessions of therapy and my first since we took a break for the Christmas holidays. My therapist has said to me in almost every session I have attended ‘Yes, you’ve got it; well done you’ and every time she has said it I have felt a little dejected because no, I don’t feel as though get it. Yesterday I think I finally got it, the meaning of therapy, the thing my therapist has been trying to drum into me is exactly what I feared all along; she can’t help me, I have to do this. Of course I knew this already but accepting it as fact is a terrifying concept – essentially all that therapy can do for me is teach me to behave a different way to cope with the way my Bipolar disorder makes me feel but these feelings, this torture and agony that lives within my brain will never go away and for the rest of my days I will have to work hard to look as though I am not in turmoil on the inside. This knowledge is not therapeutic in the least.

My therapist says that after changing my behaviour for a long while it will become a second nature and not so much of an effort or a chore and so perhaps I will not have to work at pretending forever but this doesn’t seem like much of a cure to me… All through life you will hear people telling you to be yourself and my therapist is telling me to behave like the masses in order to keep myself sane.

Not to mention the other ‘coping techniques’ I have been told to apply to my everyday living; the school holidays that interfere so much with my disease because of their lack of structure are my responsibility to cure. In order to do this I will have to write a plan for each day, give myself a reason and set time to be out of bed… the very things I have no motivation to do.

I feel a great weight of pressure upon my head, wellness is my responsibility but how can I possibly stay well when a very vocal part of me doesn’t even want sanity?

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