Fuzzy Lines

The last 4 days have been hell. I haven’t been triggered as violently as I was in that appointment for years – since not long after my breakdown, when I was at Maytree. I’ve lived with the ideas & behaviours & beliefs that stem from trauma my entire adult life in some way or another – it’s almost definitely the root of my social phobia, and my self-loathing (which allows depression to flourish). But something about being anxious about being vulnerable, and maybe it’s the power dynamic, leaves me particularly susceptible to being triggered in an encounter with MH professionals.

I’m having a hundred conversations a day with my psychistrist, in my head. But they twist and morph, and the line between him and my abuser is fuzzy. I’m in the little hospital office, but then I’m in the place of repeated belittling & verbal abuse. That sofa. That thick air, the crushing weight of expectation, and dread. Knowing what will happen. Knowing I’m about to do the wrong thing, even if (especially if) I do nothing.

So when my psychiatrist told me (contrary to last time) that using diazepam to go out is Wrong, is it any wonder I can’t just shake that off? I took 2.5mg this morning, after agonising over it so long D made the decision for me. It felt like swallowing a grenade. I hear the words of my therapist, “an experiment” – and a part of me hopes if I take it, see nothing bad happens, it’ll ease the panic. But the 2.5mg has barely touched me and now I have the whole fucking thing all over again.

I’m going to the dentist this afternoon. I should probably cancel, but I can’t. They will charge me, and I will worry that doing so means my teeth will imminently fall out. I don’t need the teeth dreams right now, on top of all the hospital dreams I have when I’m this anxious. Saving grace is that it’s a woman. And I remember, all this might have been avoided if they’d just let me see a woman as my psych too. I still get worried and anxious about doing the wrong thing, but I wouldn’t see his face. I wouldn’t be so afraid to go against my psych’s advice – so afraid it’s not fear, it’s terror. Cold, reptilian terror. It rears up every time I try to make a decision. I’m so afraid of doing the wrong thing I’m tearing myself into shreds. I get stuck in loops of contradiction. I hear everyone’s voice but my own. Knowing I’m about to do the wrong thing, even if (especially if) I do nothing.


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