Poor therapists. They can never get anything right.
Actually, scratch that. My poor therapist. Maybe yours can.
Because whatever she will touch and whatever she will do and however she will respond to me — it is bound to trigger something. Something strong and explosive that will leave the ground shaking and me running for cover.
Because I am a minefield.
Whatever is touched triggers something strong to burst through the surface.
There is no safe territory within me.
If I tell her of the raw pain her silence triggers, and she decides to stretch and share a bit more of herself, well, that is not going to work.
Because then shame explodes and I need to run away from her anyway.
I need to promise myself I will never show up at her office again.
That I will never her show my face again..
I need to press control-Z on whatever vulnerable stuff I had said, because it leaves me in an inferno of shame — for having needs, for having expressed my needs, but most of all, for forcing someone to do something for me.
And that feels…. shudder... maybe even worse than anything.
Worse than aloneless. Worse than pain. Worse than doubt. Worse than rejection.
To force a reluctant someone to stretch for me....
To behold it and wonder why I asked for it and how it's even helping...
So, dear therapist.
You can’t get anything right.
Nothing you do will ever make me feel better.
I’m unsoothable.
I’m damaged and flawed.
I am a minefield and I will always explode — or more often, implode — no matter what intervention you use.
So maybe don’t even try.
But maybe do try.
Because your trying somehow, somewhere… I think it’s that trying that creates those tiny cracks in my armor through which tiny, almost impercetible, shafts of light do come through.