I’ve seen a few people in the mental health blogosphere describe the process of leaving a therapist a bit like Nanny McPhee: When you don’t want them, but need them, they must stay, and when you want them, but no longer need them, then they must go.
This is not necessarily true. I am not leaving therapy, and I by no means no longer need therapy, but I am transitioning from one hour of therapy with my current psychologist a week to two hours a week of DBT group and one hour with a new (program-associated) DBT therapist.
I’m scared to end. I’m scared to begin.
And I keep circling back to that thought which underpins everything, which has always been at the core of my problems: I’m not enough. I’m not sick enough. I’m not deserving enough. I’m not bad enough. It’s put me in an interesting place, one where I self-sabotage and deliberately send myself down a spiral to confirm to myself that I am, indeed, worthy of therapy, that I am sick enough.
So I have to stop. Take a breath. Remind myself that that very thought alone – I’m not sick enough – is an ironic symbol of my inherent sickness anyway. It’s a thought distortion that has plagued me, and will probably continue to plague me for a while longer. It’s a thought distortion that I’m aiming to move away from by starting DBT. My therapeutic glimpses at DBT in the past have only been little glances of the help it can offer, but I was in such dark places at the time, it was difficult to apply them at all.
By the same token, it’s made me realise (in the same way that eating disorder treatment did) just how messed up I am. How messed up my emotions and thoughts are. How estranged I am from my experiences. How often I dissociate. How frequently I’ll avoid conversation to avoid reliving a memory. Isn’t it odd that the very act of starting DBT has made me realise just how much I need it?
I hope it gets easier.
Because right now, it makes me feel like a child. Maybe that’s what needs nurturing on the inside. I feel insulted when trying to analyse my behaviours. I feel pissed off at trying to change them, even though I know that they do need to change. I feel like crying when I have to confess that I self harmed, and no, I wasn’t able to use any skills, and no, they didn’t even cross my mind.
Trying to navigate this new therapy path is not so dissimilar to trying to navigate my own mind, so I guess eventually, I’ll just have to accept the winding turns and back-tracks and times where I get lost as bumps along the journey that I shouldn’t blame on myself.