Today I bowed out early

It’s not the first time I’ve failed to stay the course. Indeed, the history of my social life is littered with nights out where I snuck off before the club, moved onto a curry house instead of a long walk to the newest ‘trendy’ wine bar or, in my younger years, legged it for the last bus to avoid the taxi fare home.

In my professional life I’m infamous amongst my peers for a sharp exit from an event before a particularly tedious speaker or the dreaded ‘networking mingle’ gets underway. But today was a new early exit, today I left a therapy session at around the halfway point.

Now I can’t be precise because, despite the clock watching that had been going on from the moment I entered the room, the noise in my head had taken over and I’d completely lost track of the time.

Some hour or so earlier I’d known I wasn’t up to it. I know, how can someone not be up to therapy? Therapy is what you do when you’re not up to life! But the funny thing is that therapy itself is seriously f*cking hard work. And some days, when your head feels like it’s as foggy as a valley on a winter morning, you just can’t do it.

Well, maybe in the early days of therapy you can. When you can still present the you that you choose for the rest of the world, when you can wear the mask that you keep for the big scary outside then you probably can. It would be pointless, but you’d survive.

I’ve been in therapy well over a year now (yep I’m proper invested and my therapist is proper, medal earning, patient) and I can’t wear that mask in front of him, I just can’t. We’ve peeled back the layers over time, we’ve found the hurt bits, the vulnerable and scared versions of me that the world doesn’t get to see. And I knew that, as soon as I walked in I’d be laid bare. Of course, it could have been a great healing opportunity. I could have been raw, I could have explored the feelings, the grief I was connected to, the worry I had about the upcoming breaks in therapy, the impending visit from a challenging relative. It could have been. But, despite my absolute trust in my brilliant therapist and the certainty I have that he cares, that he would never hurt me and that he is going to stick around even when I’m hard work, angry and testing, I still can’t quite face showing the fragile part of myself when I know I might say or do something that would be ‘too much, jeopardise the ‘therapeutic relationship’ or negatively impact his opinion of me. I feel embarrassed still, I feel ashamed. And I still fear a loss of control.

You see my brain, my head, is both my greatest asset and my greatest liability. My therapist and I call the dodgy bit ‘the gremlin’. It’s that voice in my head that blesses me with the destructive messages, tells me I’m worthless, makes me doubt every close relationship I have, leads me to believe that the world would be better without me, and other delightful messages of support and encouragement on a daily, hourly and, oft times, moment by moment basis.

So, where did all that leave me today?

The gremlin: “Your head is crawling with rats, with vermin spreading their poison. You’re toxic”

My sane brain: “piss off”

The gremlin: “If you go today you’ll spill all this nonsense out about feeling rubbish, like you always do, looking for sympathy, making it sounds all ‘woe is me’. He’ll never believe you if you keep doing it.”

My sane brain: “I don’t think that’s true; I’m just going to be honest”

The gremlin: “If you want to piss off someone who is trying to help you sure. If you want to play the wounded child again go for it. Remember you were OK the other day, might look a bit manipulative to rock up today broken again but your call.”

My sane brain: “Yeah Ok I don’t want to be always bonkers, what shall I do oh wise gremlin?”

Gremlin: “stick with me kid I’ve got this. Just say you’re not going, if you can put on a brave face you can go on Friday, I’ll let you.”

Sane brain: “thanks, OK I’ll do that”

Scared part of sane brain: *sends text to cancel probably more than hoping that therapist knows I’m not ok and that gremlin has got me*

And you know what? He did realise. He knew. And it would have been very easy for him to have said ‘sorry to hear that, see you Friday’. But my therapist is a warrior – he faces off to the gremlin. He can see that the gremlin is just a poor sad creature, made from years of hurt, born from sadness and confusion and a need to survive. He can moderate the gremlin but treat it with consideration, move it gently to the side.

So, I made it into the room. Sane brain 1 – gremlin 0.

Alas at this point the gremlin got louder, it got scared and aggressive. The threats against my sane brain escalated “if you start wittering on you’ll lose his attention forever”, “you need to show you’re mending, you cannot expect any more support without proper progress”, “you’re a total f*cking loser and you need to leave before you say something that I will really hurt you for later”.

I left.

At which point of course the gremlin cheered, and then returned to the business of bad mouthing me. Even my sane brain had a good solid attack at this very poor decision which was, if nothing else, bloody rude!

In car, find carpark, sob….fairly standard. I definitely could publish a guide to car parks of the Midlands suitable for a good weep. Apology text issued.

The day went on, the sadness, sense of stupidity and regret poured in. But my therapist is a bit of a legend and spent the next few hours slowly putting me back together by text and email and I’ve reached a sort of peace with it all.

Has it taught me anything? Sure.

· The gremlin inside – he’s a t0sser. And he’s still there but he gets scared, his armour is not perfect

· My sane brain – without the gremlin not so shabby

· My scared part of sane brain – needs to try and speak up because what she feels is often exactly what needs to be said

· My therapist – a bit of a hero (although not perfect, as his dubious views on the merits of the Emerald Isle will evidence)

· My car – really not the best place for a cry, needs better tinted windows and more tissues.