After this week’s therapy, my therapist was poised to soothe my aching soul. We talked about some hard stuff. And then we talked about some more hard stuff. And then we talked about my parents. It was great. I love talking. But then she asked me the question of the hour.
On a scale of 1 to 10, how depressed are you?
I fucking hate this question. Especially when I’m depressed. It’s so much easier to measure my experience after the fact. Also, it makes me put a number on a graph that I cannot see. So I threw out the best answer I had, and she took it down in her book. Then, with the most compassionate look a human can possible wear, the next bit came.
Now, you’re depression will be worse tomorrow. We talked about a lot of hard stuff today. Be prepared, okay?
Can I just say: What the fuck? I told her that it normally doesn’t work that way for me, and that my emotions don’t always follow “the rules”. She is great. She knows this. She just used the wrong wording, but it felt like a punch in the head. She spiked my anxiety, made me angry, and left me confused all at once. Now I have zero ability to objectively deny her statement, because its effect may, in fact, cause more depression. Excuse me while I….
Hmm, excuse me. I had a little something stuck in my throat, there. Glad that’s over with. I love my therapist, and she is great. I just need to give her a nudge, methinks. I’m sure that I’m not the only one. Feel free to chime in if someone on your care team tries to reassure you, but makes it worse. I’d love to know what sets off other folks. Maybe then I won’t read this post later, and go, “What the fuck, me?”
Well, here’s wishing on a rock.