Graduation has come and gone. While it was a semi-fun day, I was not emotionally there. For some reason, the pride of this accomplishment was not there. I just sort of went through the graduation motions with a “blah” feeling. No pride. No excitement. No happiness that I did this work and got this degree. I couldn’t emotionally connect to my accomplishment, even though I really wanted to.
I had therapy today and discussed this with my therapist. We talked about how the past eight months have been a blur for me. They are ones in which I really don’t remember. I lived them, but the memories are fuzzy. It’s almost like I didn’t live them. He told me that my life has changed so much over these past eight months and since I am still dealing with my depression and grief, it is hard for me to connect to my accomplishments. He also discussed how the lack of support there for me that day could also have triggered some of these feelings.
We discussed my dependence on sleeping pills. I left them at my apartment again and noticed that when I don’t take the pills, I am plagued by horrible nightmares that wake me up. It’s not just one nightmare a night. It starts as a nightmare that wakes me up. Then, I fall back asleep and have another one that wakes me up. This process continues throughout the whole night. Nights without these pills are horrible and I dread them. Most of these nightmares are tragedy based. In them, there is usually a tragedy in which the person (or myself) is left alone (or abandoned) to deal with it on their own. My therapist told me this didn’t surprise him as most of the feelings I am dealing with are that of tragedy and abandonment. Since these feelings have been the theme of my life this year, my brain is trying to process it, even during my sleeping hours. I was told that my sleeping pills tranquilize my body. These dreams may occur when I take them, but my body is tranquilized, so I am not woken up by them and don’t remember them.
We also discussed my last breakdown over my mother. This was difficult water to tread for me as I choked back tears. I almost lost it when he asked me, “If your mother was here with us in this room, what would you say to her?” I shook my head and mumbled, “I don’t know” as I choked back tears. I could tell he knew I was uncomfortable. He then asked me if I would ask her any questions. I shrugged and stared down at the ground. He told me most people want to ask their loved one why they left them or why they had to die and asked if I would ask her that. To which I mumbled, “I suppose.” Then he asked me, “What do you think she would answer with?” I raised my eyes and met his. I then looked away and shrugged as I replied, “I don’t know.” I so badly wanted him to get off this topic. He asked again, “What do you think she would say?” I finally mumbled, “that she didn’t choose to die and leave me.” He nodded and replied, “that is what most people say as well. She didn’t choose to leave you and would probably tell you that she didn’t want to leave you. But, she couldn’t help it.” I could only nod as I sat uncomfortably in my chair thinking about all of this.
My therapist is trying to get me to the point of not feeling sad when I think about my mother. To not dread thinking about her. To not associate her memory with tragedy. This is hard for me, as her death was so unexpected and at such a critical time in my life where one needs a mother. He is no longer playing “Mr. Nice Therapist” with this concept. I feel like he is trying to rip off that bandaid. During my next therapy session, I am to bring pictures of my parents. Any pictures of them. We will apparently be going through the pictures together and talking about the memories that come with them. He assured me it would be okay for me to cry while we do this and he would be there to help me through it. He also wants to read through the letters I have written to my parents here on my blog. This sort of makes me nervous, as I wasn’t expecting him to want to read them. I will make myself print them off and take them in, even though I really don’t want to. I suppose an audience of 133 people reading the letters is nothing compared to my therapist reading them.