Letter to my therapist..

(In order for me to be as open as possible in therapy, I release my thoughts into my journals and blogs and letters then allow my therapist to read it; therefore, she has a complete understanding of my mind and emotions. This is part of the first letter written to her as I introduced the concept to her).

Since I’m more expressive when writing or typing, I figured the best way to prepare for sessions and make sure I am as open as possible is to write to you like I write to myself in my journal. Two weeks ago, we discussed my progress and I was so proud and was excited to tell everyone in sight but since then I have regressed significantly. After missing a couple of days of my antidepressants, I deemed myself as being strong enough to not need them. I felt that my body was composed of toxins because I was on so many prescribed medications, and that I was relying too heavily on my Lexapro to cure me and make me feel whole. I can’t be certain as to whether or not, the skipping of pills led to my demise or if the situations just truly got the best of me. In addition, I started my fall semester and the stress of not being able to afford books, the inability to find a job, the lack of answers from my doctors; I have just become so frustrated and hopeless. And insecure, because I look like a freak, a monster, a nightmare. Every inch of my body has been consumed by this mess, and I hate that I lack control. 
I remember just a few months ago I was talking with you and praising my sister for raising me, and always being there to help me. It’s crazy to have to say it’s the polar opposite now. I can’t discuss my depression with her or she will keep my niece and nephew away from me. She thinks I’ll have episodes when I’m with them, but my niece and nephew are my life support. I hate that she throws my issues back in my face. The fight she had with me last week though, I say it in that way because I don’t argue, was something I’ve never experienced with her. She turned in my mother. She turned into the mother who abused us verbally, emotionally, and physically growing up. She tried to tear me down with words and make me feel worthless in the same way my mother always has, and all I could do was laugh. I am my own worst critic, there is no name that a person can call me that I haven’t called myself. Sad thing is, she started this attack against me because I decided not to get Marley twists because they couldn’t find the color I wanted. Sometimes I wonder why she hates me… Am I too damaged for her perfect life? Does the complexity of my life not fit into her picture? Am I not good enough? Is she ashamed of me and my problems? What is it? 

   

From the time I woke up on Saturday until the time I left, my mother spewed negative comments at me and complained about everything I did. I told her she was being very negative to me, and that simple phrase set her off. She dogged me out and tried to demean me, and it worked. She talked about how no one can stand my ass and that’s why my own sister won’t speak up me. She said I lack friends because no one likes me because I’m pathetic, and so on… I ran into my room with a blade in one hand and Xanax in the other. I felt as though my entire family had turned against me. I felt like the past was starting to relive itself. I sliced and sliced, then watched the beautiful red pellets stain the skin of my wrist.

I texted Cali boy looking for some compassion and an escape. He let me chill in the hotel room with him, but I was disappointed in his inability to comfort me. He didn’t hug me or try to console me, instead he kept yelling at me to speak up and say what happened but his temper scared me. I didn’t fear him hitting me, I feared him mimicking my parents behavior, which is what I was trying to escape from. 

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