Sunday, 21 June 2015

My misery loves itself. Apparently.

According to my mentor, my misery likes to shine. It's competitive. It likes to win.

So she's not going to fight it anymore. She's not going to compete with it. Instead, she is going to try to boost my "perfect core". That's her new plan. That's how she's going to disarm and defeat my negative side.

I have always been my own worst bully. Always. So when I was bullied by outsiders as well, that was more like confirmation than anything else. Everything they said to me hit very close to home, so of course I got defensive; if I didn't think there was some truth to what they were saying, I wouldn't have felt the need to defend myself to the same extent. Lashing out in response to it was a reflexive response to a threat; I felt like I was being exposed, in a way, like the horrible truth I'd been trying to conceal my whole life was being revealed, somehow.

But I couldn't make it stop. So instead, I gave up, because they were right, after all: I am a loser. I am worthless. I am ugly. I'm all of those things.

So it's not just a matter of getting past being bullied as a teenager; that's just a fraction of a much bigger problem. Did it make my life hell for three years? Yes. But the next three years were even worse, because my cover had been blown. It was like the whole world could finally see what a huge failure I was. I had moved on from secondary school, but I entered into the last three years of school, upper secondary, with everything out in the open. And I was horribly depressed, struggling with a level of self-hatred that was extreme, even for me. It had always been somewhat contained, but not anymore.

"Where are the bullies now?" my mentor asked me.

When I tried to explain to her that the biggest bully was always inside of me, and that being angry with those who bullied me in years 8-10 isn't going to help me move on because the one person I hate the most is myself, she leaned back in her chair and said, "Wow, your negative side must be so pleased with itself right now."

So she thinks I'm some misery-hugging twat? She thinks I like being miserable?

Okay. Yeah. I fucking love it. I love feeling like shit, it's fucking great. It feels really good, not lying to myself, trying to tell myself I'm this supposedly "great" person when I'm clearly not. If I were such a "great" person, I wouldn't fucking be where I am right now. I wouldn't have to sit in that chair with her, every fucking week, trying to defend my pathetic existence. I wouldn't have to listen to her trying to deflate it, to prove me wrong, to somehow magically try to change who I am; who I've been my whole life. I wouldn't have to sit there and feel so fucking small for a whole fucking hour, knowing I'm supposed to be doing my work instead of whatever the fuck it is I'm actually doing with my life.

The worst part is probably the pretence; the stupid fucking notion that we have some meaningful relationship when it's all just bullshit. She's there because it's her job, and I'm there because of some twisted sense of guilt and obligation. I show up every week because I feel like I have to, because of the ridiculous fake notion that she actually gives a shit. She doesn't.

She keeps saying that she'd be upset if I stopped showing up, but who the fuck does she think she's kidding? She must think I'm stupid; though, of course, she tells me that she doesn't. Why on earth would she give a crap if I didn't show up for my session?

She does this thing where she showers me with all these blatant lies, like, "Oh, but you're a wonderful person. You're smart, and kind, and intelligent, and beautiful, and strong, and [insert adjective of absolutely no value whatsoever]" and just… it's unbearable. Suffocating. I can feel my insides curling up and dying whenever she starts doing that, because it's such blatant crap, I can't stand it. If these things were true, WHY AM I SITTING IN THIS CHAIR? Why am I such a fucking failure? I cannot possibly be all of those things and yet be sitting in this chair, with you, wondering why the hell I have to be alive.

Fuck this shit.

1 comment:

  1. I just wanted to comment that I liked this. Well maybe liked is not the right word.
    I understood it completely.