On Thursday I finished Week 3 of my intensive Dialectical Behaviour Therapy class. Two more fucking weeks of 12 hours of therapy to go. I spent the first two weeks simmering in resentment that I was there, which didn’t make sense at all because it’s not like anybody was forcing me to go. The classes have been useful but it’s pretty hard to get much out of it when you also have to hold down a full-time job, and do overtime on top of it. The classmates who appear to be making the most improvement are the ones who are currently not working, and so who have the time to think about what we’ve learned inbetween lessons.
The best thing about the classes is the other women. It’s nice knowing that there are women out there with similar issues to my own. The most surprsing thing I’ve learned is that my mother is apparently a secret Asian-American tiger mom. There are, bizarrely, three Asian-American women in the class (a surprisingly high number given there are only six of us in total) and all of them had the clichéd over-involved, smothering, driven Asian mother. I might not be Asian-American but, boy, can I relate. I think I need to write a whole other post about mothers and how they fuck their daughters up. I could be wrong, but it doesn’t seem like fathers fuck up their sons quite so badly.
The woman who runs the group thinks that I have some sort of rapid cycling mood disorder. I don’t think my psychiatrist believes her (I think she still thinks I’ve got Borderline Personality Disorder), but she put me on Seroquel anyway, which is a fucking anti-psychotic (!) used to treat schizophrenia initially but now also bipolar disorder. One of the major side-effects of taking an anti-psychotic is weight gain. I swear to God if I put on so much as a pound I’m coming off that shit. I’d rather be crazy and beautiful than sane and ugly. Yeah, I’m superficial, so sue me.
My life revolves around work and therapy, so there is not much else to write about. I saw RG last weekend. He was four days “sober” at that point, if you can call replacing alcohol with shits loads of weed “sober”. I’ll spare you the details but we didn’t even shag and he still managed to make me feel like a worthless piece of shit. I’m done with him. His number’s erased and, even though I could technically look it up in my AT&T online phone records, I know I won’t. If he contacts me I might respond. Honestly, I just don’t care anymore. I feel that I had to go through a “men phase” and that I’m out of it now. The Chilean-American dude I half-assed dated seemed nice, but even he has issues/baggage, and I can’t be bothered dealing with them.
The main point of Dialectical Behaviour Therapy is to teach you the skills to deal with your crazy emotions/moods without fucking up your life and alienating people around you. One of the skills is called “checking the facts”. For example, earlier today I felt so incredibly lonely and I started to imagine that I would feel this way forever. This is the point when you’re supposed to be, like, “Woah, woah, woah, girl! That’s catastrophic thinking. Snap out of it!”. The only problem for me is that I can’t remember a time when I haven’t been lonely, and it really is hard to imagine that one day I’ll feel whole, happy and connected to people around me. Loneliness has been my constant companion since the age of seven, and it feels like it’s almost a part of me now. How the fuck can I “check the facts” and believe that things will be different when, for almost thirty-five years, they’ve always been the same?