It’s time to ponder the big stuff

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Time to look back to childhood learnings

I have a new counsellor. I was referred because, during my counselling assessment, it was suggested that online CBT and management of symptoms probably wouldn’t cut it. I’d done all that. It got me through but it didn’t move me forward. It was time to tackle the big stuff.

Was I ready? As ready as I was when I ticked the option for GCSE Drama as an excruciatingly shy 15 year old. And as ready as I was when I jumped on the bus to travel to the Christchurch skydive centre.

So I very quickly said yes and committed before I could wimp out. After all, my amygdala might have been telling me that I was bricking it, but my rational mind argued that these things would be bloody good for me. As good for me, in fact, as a Labour government would be for Britain. (NB – for any currently undecided voters, just to clarify matters, I passed GCSE drama and survived the sky dive, landing with a beaming smile and a huge surge in endorphins. So do take a chance on Jezza tomorrow. You will be rewarded.)

Anyway, back to therapy. Not that I would need so much of it if Labour got in…..

Sorry, that’s definitely the end of the political talk now. Back to therapy…

I thought I might share this new experience of more in depth therapy, as I would love to hear from anyone else who has gone beyond CBT and into what makes us who we are. It’s kind of interesting having spent so many years managing symptoms and learning about CBT to actually look at what’s underneath. What’s driving it all. I had no idea until recently that a lack of self-esteem could cause anxiety. That it’s not necessarily all the small things that are making you anxious, but something much bigger and longer-term that’s driving it.

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Doubt

Sketch 1The buzzing has been constant for so many years I can barely hear it. A doubtful tinnitus. A constant humming, like the electricity in the walls and the distant traffic in a place I’ve lived forever.

Am I intruding on this conversation? Are they flinching from my smell? Can they see me picking my eyes, my hair, my skin?

Is it thinking too much of myself to assume others have crowd funded this hate on my behalf. When I can do it all myself.

Too much, too little, too me, too much. Apologise before you speak. Speak too much then speak some more to say you’re sorry.

Like a mosquito somewhere in a dark room. It’s not clear, but it’s definitely there.¬† And when it shows itself to your ears, you remember what it is. It bites. And it will.

And when it bites, you create two. And four. And eight. And on and on and one more creates a swarm that you can’t see through.

I can hear the electricity in the walls. I can hear the distant traffic. I can hear the jibes. They’re coming from them, and them, and them. Passing the baton from mosquito to moth to spider to a darkness that’s alive and moving as fast as my mind. There’s no such thing as nothing. Dread. It’s telling me something.

How can you seek solace – when you don’t know if you’re running from them, or from yourself?

I know what doubt is. But I still doubt its existence.